


Bury Me Face Down

by vipjuly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Journalist Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Mentions of past prostitution, Serial Killer Dean Winchester, Tags may be added, not a lot of tags because i don't want to spoil anything, season 4 apocalypse references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25575403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Castiel is the best investigative journalist around. He's a whistle blower. He's award-winning. And yet, he hasn't found the story that...speaksto him, a story that really makes himfeelsomething.Dean Winchester is a caught and convicted serial killer, living out his last few months on death row. When he's granted the last interview, Castiel starts to wonder if Dean really is the monster the media and courts painted him as. He puts him on edge, sure. What person exists in this world that is completely comfortable with that honey-sweet smile directed at them? But the more Castiel starts to investigate, the more things start to seem... odd.Dean Winchester might be completely different than what he presents as.As a matter of fact... so might Castiel.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 379
Kudos: 464





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this story for over a year. (two years?) it's haunted me. i've finally found the drive to complete it. hope you enjoy!  
> title from the grandson song, ["bury me face down"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0LSzBkkQZZkwV656r6etLg?si=Wo0MATt6RIucpEPEha7bTQ)

“ _Novak!_ ”

Castiel startles awake at his desk, a hand slapping up to his face to automatically wipe away any drool that may or may not have accumulated on his cheek. This isn’t the first time he’s fallen asleep at his desk, and it isn’t likely to be the last, but he still manages to feel a curl of shame as he checks the clock and realizes he’s been out for the better part of the morning. Lifting his gaze to peek past his monitor he’s unsurprised to see his boss, Crowley, standing in front of his desk with an amused smirk curling his features. 

“I don’t pay you to nap, handsome,” Crowley says, even though there’s amusement dancing in his eyes. He loves to catch Castiel sleeping, even though he never really punishes him for it, simply because he knows he can hold it over the younger man’s head later. “You’ve got a call on line two. She sounds gorgeous- don’t let her slip away, hm?” 

Crowley turns on heel and leaves, walking around other desks on his way back to his office. The other occupants of the room look steadfastly busy, even if they actually aren’t, and a few people even send Castiel some murderous looks. They all consider him to be Crowley’s favorite, even though he feels more like his plaything at times, and all Castiel can do is shrug it off and ignore them all. 

He didn’t become top journalist at _Honest & Enlightened Leading Literature_ because Crowley likes him - Castiel Novak is the top journalist in his field because he worked his ass off for it.

...And he can go toe to toe with Crowley without pissing himself or killing him, so that largely helps. 

Rubbing the remainder of sleep from his eyes, Castiel lifts up the receiver of his desk phone, pressing the button below the blinking red light, his voice chalk on a board. “Castiel Novak.” 

“ _Hello_ ,” the voice on the other line greets, smooth as whiskey. “ _My name is Pamela Barnes._ ”

Castiel squints at the screensaver dancing on his monitor as he tries to place why that name sounds so familiar. Planting his elbows on the desk, his free hand cradles his head as he instead stares at the grainy wood of the surface, letting out an ill-concealed agitated sigh. “And?” 

“ _I’m Dean Winchester’s defense attorney._ ” 

That perks Castiel up immediately, the sudden motion jerking one of his elbows so violently he knocks over a pen holder. Scrambling to right the wire basket and stuff all of the pens and pencils back inside, Castiel grabs his notepad and flips it open to a blank page, snatching one of the pens trying to valiantly roll off the ledge of the desk. “Pamela. What can I do for you?” 

The woman’s voice is smoky and smooth when she says, “ _Dean Winchester has agreed to do an interview._ ” 

Sitting back in his chair, pen caught between his fingers as he runs the same hand through his wild hair, Castiel frowns at the desk. “I understood that he was refusing to talk to anyone.”

“ _Death row changes a man,_ ” Pamela says, a bit of amusement in her tone. She sounds pretty laid back for a defense attorney. “ _Wake up, angel. Your name was drawn._ ” 

“Wait,” Castiel clears his throat. Being woken up from an hour-long nap and then suddenly being forced to talk is making him thirsty and delirious, but he doesn’t have any water at his desk. “I didn’t put in a bid to interview him. My name wasn’t in the pot.”

“ _Well, then, Mr. Novak. Today’s your lucky day._ ” The smile in Pamela’s voice is audible. “ _Dean Winchester chose_ you.”


	2. Chapter 2

As Castiel goes through the rigid routine of sending his valuables and belongings through an x-ray scanner and being subjected to a frisk from an overly friendly female guard, he wonders for the millionth time how he ended up here. Pamela Barnes had been very adamant that Dean Winchester had agreed to one last interview before lethal injection, and even though hundreds of reporters all across the country had put their request in for the spot, she had also been adamant that Dean Winchester chose him, specifically, to conduct the interview. 

What, exactly, was the point of having people put in a bid?

Castiel doesn’t even know what he’ll be doing. Will it be a taped confession, a macabre movie left behind for people who want to study him? Is Winchester trying to clear the air before he dies, a last reach for humanity before lights out? 

What on earth is Castiel getting into? 

Dressed in navy slacks and a matching blazer, Castiel is thankful he’s wearing a black button-down,hopeful that the sweat stains at his pits don’t show too bad. He has a notepad, pencil, and a tape recorder; he’d been ordered to leave his phone with his personal effects and had pat himself on the back mentally for having the foresight to bring the recording device. Kevin always makes fun of him for having a tape recorder, but sometimes Castiel can’t read his own handwriting so it comes in handy more often than not. 

An armed guard with chocolate skin and a stony expression leads him down a few different corridors. Castiel has never been inside a prison before, let alone a maximum security lockup, but it’s a lot different than he imagined. There’s no prisoners cajoling him from their cells, rattling the bars with cups and curses. In fact, he only sees locked doors that lead down more hallways until, finally, he’s brought to a door that is rather nondescript save for the plaque that reads CONFERENCE hanging next to it. 

The guard opens the door and gestures for Castiel to sit. Inside is a square, four-by-four table bolted down to the floor, flanked by two chairs, also bolted to the floor. There’s a D-ring welded into the center of the table and hooks for shackles on one of the chairs. Castiel sits down carefully in what he assumes is the guest chair, quietly taking stock of his surroundings. There are no windows, and a quick glance shows cameras mounted in all four corners of the room.

“There’s a panic button underneath the lip of the table,” the guard says. “The prisoner will be shackled for the entire hour. You are not allowed to touch him.” His gaze drops towards the dull pencil resting atop his closed notepad. “Winchester has never been in an altercation or showcased aggression towards authority figures, but it’s probably still in your best interest to keep that away from him.” 

Castiel’s lips tense and it’s not a smile, not a grimace, as he pulls the notepad and pencil closer to himself. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out the recorder as the guard leaves the room, the door clanging shut behind him. Fidgeting with a few settings Castiel turns on the device and then tests it with his own voice, playing the clip back to make sure that the reverberation in the room doesn’t mess up the audio. Satisfied, he deletes that test file to free up all of the space and then sets it on the table by his wrist, letting out a slow breath. 

Thirty seconds later the door opens again with an atrocious buzz, Castiel glancing up to see the same guard guiding Dean Winchester, serial killer, by the elbow towards the table. His feet are cuffed together at the ankles, his hands bound in front of him, the blue prison jumpsuit doing nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest. Castiel clenches his jaw to keep his gaze clinical as Dean settles in across from him. The guard attaches the chain of the ankle shackles to the legs of the chair and then fastens the chain of his wrists to the D-ring on the table, Dean sending the man a charming smile.

“Thanks, Vic.” 

“Don’t get sweet on me,” the guard snaps at Dean, more bark than bite.

The door clangs, leaving Castiel alone in a sealed room with a murderer. 

He takes a moment to get a good look at Dean. One of the reasons his case was so sensationalized was because he’s so _handsome_. The public loves it when pretty people commit crimes. Even Castiel had taken note of the trial, watching the way Dean Winchester would swagger in and out of the courtroom with the air of a model rather than an inmate. He projected himself as cocky, boisterous, and charming. He even has a fanclub, Castiel had learned a few days ago while knee-deep in research. Men and women who profess their undying love for Dean, uncaring of whether he’s guilty or innocent. 

Up close, Castiel can see the appeal.

There are freckles smattered over Dean’s skin; his face, neck, and the backs of his hands. Not so many to tan him, but enough to take note of. His eyes are the richest emerald Castiel has ever looked upon, flecks of gold near the pupil and rings of blue around the rim. His lashes are long, light in color like the sandy hair on his head, the bow of his lip shiny from where he licks it in invitation, his jaw clean-shaven. 

There’s something familiar about him-

Catching himself, Castiel clears his throat and turns on the recorder. 

“Please state your name.” 

Dean lets out a slow exhale, then clasps his hands on the surface of the table and leans on his elbows with a confident smirk. “My name is Dean Winchester, I’m twenty-six years old. I’m an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women.” He pauses for a moment, and then adds: “I did not kill any people.” 

“What is the purpose of this interview?” Castiel can’t help but ask. He’s leaned back in his chair but is stiff, legs crossed, fingers folded in his lap. “My name was not in the pile of applicants who requested one-on-one time with you. I wasn’t even aware you were being held in this facility.” After a pause, he asks, “How do you know who I am?” 

“I did some research on media folks,” Dean says with a shrug. “Got a lotta time to kill here. All of the people who wanted to interview me were… boring.” He sends Castiel a wolfish smirk. “Not nearly any of ‘em were as good lookin’ as you. Was real disappointed your name wasn’t in the hat, angel.” 

Castiel’s blush wars with the nausea in his stomach, the only reaction to those words thankfully being a light sweat breaking out on his brow. “What is the purpose of this interview, Mr. Winchester?” 

Dean leans back in his seat, as much as he comfortably can while being shackled to the table and chair. He tips his head back and looks up at the ceiling, the curl on his lips faintly amused, maybe even a little reserved. “I’m gonna die, Novak. In three months they’re gonna shoot me to the moon. I know I ain’t a saint and that I don’t deserve much,” he drops his chin and levels his gaze with Castiel’s, causing the reporter’s stomach to swoop, “but I think the least I could get is a pretty face to see before I kick the bucket.” 

Now a flush works its way over Castiel’s features, annoyance flashing through his veins. He stands abruptly, fumbling for his recorder and notepad. “I am not here for your entertainment, Mr. Winchester. I will not lose my standing in the journalism community to be some sort of last hurrah before you die.” 

“It ain’t like that,” Dean quickly says, some of his bravado leaving him. The tone of his voice causes Castiel to pause. “People wanna know my story, right? _You_ wanna know my story?” 

Castiel’s gaze narrows. 

Dean gestures at Castiel’s chair. “This is my confessional.” 

Slowly, Castiel returns to his seat. He’s still poised to flee, belatedly remembering the panic button the guard had told him about. He could hit it at any time, leave and never come back. Pamela had said that he would be able to interview Dean once a week up to the date of his execution, but he also had the option to stop at any time. Shoulders getting stiff from tension, Castiel’s back stays straight as he sets the recorder down on the table again. He hadn’t pressed ‘stop’. 

“You just told me you didn’t kill anyone,” Castiel says slowly. “What are you confessing to?” 

After watching Castiel for a second, likely to make sure he wouldn’t try to flee again, Dean says calmly, “Release.” 

“Release,” Castiel repeats flatly. “I did the research on your case, Mr. Winchester. You were found guilty on all accounts. Your DNA placed you at every scene of the crime, and eye witnesses tie you to the scenes. You didn’t resist arrest when they came for you.” 

“Why would I?” Dean asks, leaning forward so he can lift a hand to scratch the side of his nose. The chains of his cuff jingle and jangle. 

“An innocent man would have protested,” Castiel says. 

“Never said I was innocent,” Dean replies.

Castiel’s jaw tenses. Deciding to call Dean on his bluff about wanting Castiel because of his looks, he asks again, “Why did you request me when my name wasn’t in the pot?” 

Dean’s expression softens as he stares at the D-ring his wrists are connected to. He wrings his fingers together slowly, and when he lifts his gaze to lock with Castiel’s, the reporter feels his gut sink heavily to the floor.

“Because you’ll listen. And I got a story I need to tell you.”

\--

Castiel doesn’t drink often, but after leaving the prison, an hour having gone by quicker than anticipated, he wastes no time in telling his taxi driver to take him to the bar by his house despite the fact it’s only three in the afternoon. Satchel in hand he settles down heavily on a stool at the bar, clumsily bumping his knuckles on the underside of the bartop to find a hook to hang his bag. Once he finds it he puts both hands on the bar and waits for the bartender to notice him; he holds up two fingers and Benny, the bartender, smiles warmly and dutifully pours him two fingers of whiskey. 

“Caught a new story, brother?” Benny asks as he sets the glass in front of Castiel.

“Something like that,” Castiel mumbles, picking up the drink and downing half of it in one swallow.

Benny doesn’t even look offended. “Rough’n?” 

Castiel runs a hand through his hair, situating himself to sit better on the stool as he leans over the counter, keeping his voice private. “What do you know about Dean Winchester?” 

Benny’s eyebrows nearly disappear under his cap. “You got a gig with that crazy sonuvabitch?” 

“I’m not really sure what it is,” Castiel admits. “His attorney called me and granted me interviews with him.”

“ _They_ called _you_?” Benny asks, whistling under his breath. 

“I’m still not sure why,” Castiel says. He toys with the glass between his fingers. Benny’s bar is old but polished, intimate and cozy, the scent inside of top-shelf whisky and old stale cigarettes from before indoor smoking was banned. Castiel has found solace here often. He and Benny aren’t best friends, but there’s something about him that has Castiel always feeling some sort of comfortable. “Benny, reporters from all around the _world_ were putting their names in a drawing to be granted an interview with Dean Winchester before he gets executed. My name wasn’t in the hat.”

“Anyone who reads the news recognizes your name, brother,” Benny says placatingly. “You’re a damn good investigative journalist. They chose you for a reason.” 

“I’m a whistleblower,” Castiel says. “I look into things that the law is too lazy to follow up on and then hand it over.”

“And like I always say, you’da made a damn fine detective,” Benny says seriously. 

Castiel waves his free hand in dismissal as he raises his glass to his lips. “I wouldn’t enjoy it.”

“Right,” Benny flashes a sly grin. His attention is grabbed by another patron, for whom he pops open a beer and slides the bottle down the bar towards him. He looks back at Castiel. “Instead, you like bein’ the vigilante reporter that tips the cops off and helps them solve cases. What did you say about ‘em?” Benny scratches the scruff on his jaw as he tries to recollect, and then snaps his fingers with a bark of laughter. “‘They’re always caught up in the red tape.’”

Castiel hides his smile behind the rim of his whiskey glass as he takes another swallow. “It’s true.” 

“Bet yer boss is all sorts of giddy with this job though, right?” Benny says. 

“He’s always happy when I have a fixed job,” Castiel says with a slight roll of his eyes, taking a deep drink of his whiskey and saying, “He says it keeps me out of trouble.”

“He only pretends he doesn’t like talking to the chief of police on a weekly basis,” Benny says with a laugh, waving his hand. “He n’ Singer got some interestin’ chemistry.” 

Castiel smirks against his glass before setting it down, running his free hand through his hair. “Dean will be executed in three months. After that, I’ll have a story to write. But it almost…” he spins the glass idly between his fingers. “It almost doesn’t seem right to do a story on a dead man.” 

“Well,” Benny leans against the counter, “what kinda stuff you chattin’ about with him? Anything confidential?” 

Castiel shakes his head. “He said he wanted to tape a confessional.”

Benny’s brows rise up to his hat. “Well, shoot.”

“But,” Castiel continues, “all we talked about today was me.”

“It’s too easy to get sweet on you, brother,” Benny says with a wink, “I don’t blame him.” 

Castiel props his elbow up on the counter and rests his chin in his hand, staring at the amber liquid clinging to the sides of his tumbler. “I can back out at any time.”

“Do you want to?” Benny asks. The weight of his question doesn’t warrant a ‘yes or no’ answer. 

Exhaling, Castiel brings the glass to his lips to knock back the final ounce. Licking his lips, he sends Benny a slightly deprecating smile as he stands from the stool. He wishes he could get sauced. His alcohol tolerance has always been scary good. He should call it a night before things get away from him. “Good night, Benny.” 

Benny politely doesn’t mention that it’s barely four in the afternoon, and wishes Castiel a good night in return.

\--

Castiel can’t make it back to the prison until the following Friday. It’s been a little over a week since the first time he sat across from Dean Winchester, and he had toyed with the idea of it also being his last - but he’s _curious_. Dean hadn’t let anything telling slip during their conversation. Castiel hadn’t had a chance to do any real investigative reporting; hadn’t had a chance to ask any questions, because as prepared as he thought he’d been going in, seeing Dean Winchester up close and personal completely threw him off course.

Sitting across from him now, Castiel still thinks he’s greatly unprepared; but, he’s always been able to roll with the punches. 

As he and Dean settle, Castiel waits for the guard to leave and the door to clang shut before speaking.

“Would you like to lead the interview, or would you like me to ask questions?” Castiel asks, flipping to a clean page of his notepad. Last time he’d only managed to jot down a few things; _young, narcissistic, probably a prison bitch_. He’d written down the word _twink_ , but crossed it out until it was barely legible. His eyes flick up to Dean as he remembers writing down the last one. Dean looks healthy and well taken care of, not like he gets abused and assaulted. While his personal appearance lends to the thought that some big burly man would claim him, something about his easy confidence and attitude has Castiel thinking things might be different than they appear.

“How do you normally do this?” Dean asks, pretty casually for a guy shackled and bound to both a table and a chair. 

Castiel adjusts the reading glasses on the bridge of his nose idly. “The type of investigations I do aren’t built strictly upon interviews. I spend most of my time doing research and digging for information that isn’t easily accessible. Sometimes that leads me to talk to people, but I keep it to the bare necessities.”

“A reporter but not a people person?” Dean’s plush lips quirk in amusement. 

“Journalist,” Castiel corrects. “And, no. My people skills are… ‘rusty’,” Castiel says, weaving his pen between his fingers so he can do finger-quotes in the air. 

Dean laughs, a fond, sweet sound. “I couldn’t tell.” 

Castiel sends him a withering look. “In any case, you asked me to be here, Mr. Winchester. I was under the assumption that you might have an idea as to what you would like to talk about.” 

A pause. And then: “D'you know what solitary confinement is like?” Dean asks. The way he phrases the question allows Castiel to know that he'll tell him, with or without a reply. “Lonely.” Dean snorts. 

“I can imagine,” Castiel replies. He twirls his pen a few times in his fingers, but he stops when he notices Dean's eyes tracking the movement. “Is that where you've been? Solitary?”

“Not at first,” Dean says. He lifts his gaze from Castiel's fingers, his expression carefully neutral. “I was with all the other buddy-boys for four months before I got sent in.”

“What did you do?” Castiel asks. When Dean doesn't reply immediately, Castiel rephrases. “It is my understanding that one must… break rules, to get into solitary. Cause trouble.”

“Yep,” Dean says flippantly. He drags a blunt nail across the table top, back and forth, forearms slightly tense. “But y'know, you can get tossed away for shit someone else starts, too.”

That catches Castiel's interest. “What happened?”

Exhaling slowly, Dean licks his plush lips, and then starts recounting the events. “Wasn't much at first. Noticed these guys bullying one of the smaller dudes. This guy- he got arrested for stupid shit. Drugs, burglary. He wasn't a tough dude, just a tweaker that got caught on a bad night. It was maybe a coupla weeks after I got in that I noticed them givin’ him shit. And me- I was new, y'know? Fresh meat. I was tryna keep my head down. Some of them didn’t even know who I was.” He smiles ruefully, meeting Castiel's gaze. “I'm sure you've noticed, but my looks attract a certain type in this kind of neighborhood.”

Castiel's gut squirms at being caught, then nods in agreement. 

“Anyway. Every so often I'd give him an out. When guys started gettin’ rough I'd interrupt with something bogus. Laundry duty, or the library cart. Stuff I was assigned to but was allowed to pick a partner with. And it worked… for a couple months.” Dean’s gaze drops to his hands, which he folds together, lacing his fingers and pressing his palms together tight. There’s a slight furrow in his brow, and Castiel is once again struck with the uncomfortable realization that Dean is beautiful… and Dean is _dangerous_. “Most of the guys in here- they ain’t stupid. I mean, some of ‘em ain’t smart, neither, but what can you do but play the cards you’re dealt? So these guys figured out that I was offering this guy cop outs, and that didn’t go over too well. One day at lunch, the biggest one came up to where I was sittin’. Alone, mind you. This big’n comes over and just…” Dean, hands still entwined, makes a sweeping motion with them. The chains attaching his wrists to the table clatter loudly, jolting Castiel minutely. “Knocks my whole tray to the floor.” Tipping his head back, the smile that curls over Dean’s lips is… terrifying. “Can mess with me all you want, man, but _don’t_ mess with mealtimes.” 

After this statement, Dean falls quiet. He’s still staring at the ceiling, giving Castiel a lovely view of the underside of his jaw. His bone structure is enviable. He’s got a bit of stubble now, the shape of it accentuating all of his angles perfectly, gingery in color with no sparse spots. A few silent moments pass, and Castiel shifts slightly in his seat, the chair creaking with his weight. 

“So: I beat him up.” 

“You didn’t kill him?” Castiel asks without thinking. Dean drops his chin and meets his gaze, amusement dancing in spring green. Castiel flaps his lips a few times before saying, “I just- I read that that’s the reason most inmates go into solitary confinement. Deadly confrontations with other inmates.” 

Nodding slowly, that treacherous smile filters over Dean’s again. “Nah, I didn’t kill him. But he killed himself a coupla days later…” his gaze slips off towards Castiel’s left, eyes slightly unfocused. “He knew who I was. What I was. Knew I’d come after him if he stepped outta line again, and so, ‘cause he couldn’t trust himself to not get into anymore trouble, he just… took care of himself.”

There isn’t even a clock in this room. Castiel has to rely on the guard keeping watch on the other side of the door to know when his hour is up. In the wake of Dean’s words all Castiel can hear is his own shallow breathing as he tries to sift through Dean’s words. The beauty of recording, though, is that Castiel can reply in an instant and dissect the words at a later time. Which is typically a comforting thought, but right now all Castiel can think about, suddenly, is that he’s sitting across from the _world’s_ most prolific serial killer.

When Dean’s eyes meet his again, a chill races down Castiel’s spine, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up straight, eliciting another shiver when it stands against the starched collar of his shirt. Dean’s smile softens, sweetens around the corners, and he looks like any typical all-American boy next door. 

“It was then I was deemed a threat to those around me. So they tossed me into solitary, and the rest is history.” 

Castiel folds his hand in his lap. He doesn’t want Dean to see his trembles, doesn’t want to give himself away. He hates that he’s so damn curious, so damn insatiable; he hates that this is the scoop of the century, and he hates that he knows even after today, he won’t call off the interviews. He’s always had a nearly obsessive need to know the truth about anything and everything, and has, over time, figured out various ways to discover the truth… but hearing Dean talk so casually about driving a man to suicide with one beating and an overhanging threat- _that_ rattles Castiel.

Clearing his throat, Castiel licks his dry lips. “You have many enemies here.”

Dean’s eyes narrow slightly; not in threat, but in… assessment. Castiel feels like those eyes are piercing directly through him, flaying open every inch of his being to peer into the depths of his existence. Castiel isn’t sure what Dean is looking for, but Dean seems to find it, or perhaps give up, because he relaxes back in his seat and shrugs. 

“Ain’t got no friends, ain’t got no enemies.”

“You wouldn’t consider your,” Castiel flips back a few pages in his small notepad, flimsy paper fluttering the stifling quiet of the room, “three hundred and eighty-seven victims ‘enemies’?” 

“Only three hundred and eighty-seven, huh?” Dean hums thoughtfully, and then sends Castiel a poisonous smile. “No. I consider them my duty.” 

The buzzer sounds, causing Castiel to nearly jump out of his seat. Gathering his notepad, pen, and recorder, Castiel holds the items to his chest as his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose. Dean watches him quietly, and Castiel swallows past the lump of nerves in his throat as he tries to level his voice.

“Thank you for your time, Dean.” 

The door swings open, Victor waiting for Castiel with his trademark scowl. Castiel steps away from his chair, the table, and the scariest man to ever be brought into existence. 

“See you next week, Cas.” 

As Castiel hurries out of the room, he does his best to ignore the sickening, pleasant twist in his gut at the nickname. 

He realizes, too late, that today’s conversation had gone from ‘Mr. Winchester’ to… ‘Dean’.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel finally settles on Fridays being the day he goes to the prison for his interview. It’s the end of the work week, which means it’s socially acceptable for him to look forward to getting utterly obliterated by alcohol once he’s off the clock. He does his best to not think about Winchester at all throughout the week. He takes on menial articles, local sports news, or graffiti in the alleys, or whatever the hell makes noteworthy news in an otherwise unnoteworthy city. 

Sitting down in the conference room, with its stark white walls, fluorescent lighting, and bolted furniture, Castiel knows that Fridays symbolize two things to him.

First, Friday means the end of another humdrum work week. It marks the end of Crowley droning on and on about this that and the other thing, it marks the end of forcing himself into social interactions with people he’d rather ignore than converse with. It means Castiel can look forward to being alone, doing his own thing; either drowning in alcohol at Benny’s bar, or bingeing Netflix on his couch and ordering takeout. 

Secondly, Friday means that Castiel’s puny, boring life gets injected with a dose of adrenaline. When he became an investigative journalist he thought he’d see more action; but the truth is, he’s responsible for taking down corrupt politicians, infiltrating the bad seeds in the police force, and exposing blackmail for the rich and privileged. Those actually aren’t very exciting, believe it or not. He’s never kicked down a door or aimed a gun at someone and told them to surrender. 

Meeting with Dean on Fridays makes the dull buzz of the week worth it, as twisted as it is. His work is normally engaging on an intellectual level, but this is… thrilling.

Yes, Castiel is scared. He knows better than to let his guard down around Dean, knows what the man is capable of, what he’s been arrested and sentenced to death for. 

And yet… 

The door buzzes in. Victor escorts a smiling Dean to the table, shackles him, and then leaves the two men alone in the clinically nondescript room. The recorder is going, Castiel’s notebook closed, his arms folded loosely over his chest as he regards Dean. 

“You look good today, Cas,” Dean comments, his gaze roving over Castiel’s features - across his face, down his neck, to the decidedly casual outfit of a v-neck and well-fitting jeans. His eyes linger on Castiel’s biceps. “Casual Friday?” 

“I wear a suit all week,” Castiel says, unaffected by the compliment. “I changed before coming here.” 

Dean flutters a hand to his chest, “Y’don’t gotta worry ‘bout impressing me, sweetheart. I’m the one who brought y’here, remember?” 

That makes Castiel’s blood stutter in his veins. Outwardly he does his best to stay unaffected, tilting his head a bit and observing Dean’s charisma. “Your sexual orientation hasn’t been disclosed to the public.” Castiel notes. Related, semi-related, probably massively, totally, completely unrelated. “You’ve killed men and women, with no regard for gender or their own sexual and gender identities. It is widely believed that you killed at random, and could never decide on a ‘type’.” 

“Oh, I had a type,” Dean says casually. “Every single thing I killed was my type.” 

Castiel’s jaw clenches. “They were people, Dean. Not things.” 

Dean’s eyes flash when he smirks at Castiel. “If you say so.” 

Straightening in his seat, Castiel starts flipping through his notebook. He’d done so much research on Dean he’d gone dizzy with it; on top of following the trial and investigations live, Castiel is pretty sure that short of holding Dean Winchester’s file in his hand, he’s got all the information out there. Every reporter was hanging on to this case by their teeth, hungry for new information, doing their own digging when it felt like the well had gone dry. Castiel had been among them. Even if nothing got published, learning about Dean Winchester and his cross-country mania was fodder for every hungry journalist’s mind. 

Castiel has the opportunity to fill in the gaps, here. He just has to go about things in a way that gets Dean to supply the missing information, and hope that Dean doesn’t decide to cancel the interviews and refuse to see Castiel again. There’s still a lot of holes in the case, and Castiel would chew off his own left foot to get them filled. 

“Did you consider your brother a ‘thing’, or a person?” Castiel asks. 

Dean jolts so violently, his chains snap taut, his fists slamming the table so hard it vibrates even though it’s bolted into concrete as he stands. Surprised, Castiel whips back in his seat, though Dean isn’t anywhere close to reaching him, eyes wide and heart in his throat as Dean trembles with rage across from him. 

“Do _not_ talk about Sammy like that,” Dean snarls. It’s the most emotion he’s ever shown- probably the first true emotion at that. He takes a few measuring breaths to calm himself, then warily looks over his shoulder towards the door, before he seats himself once more and hunches his shoulders to hang his head, running his fingers through his hair. “Don’t talk about him.”

“Why not?” Castiel asks, his voice soft from fear without his permission. “He’s been omitted from everything. He was never mentioned in the trial, hasn’t been mentioned since your case closed.”

Dean bores holes into the table with his eyes, not answering.

“Where is your brother?” Castiel’s voice has returned to its normal pitch, no longer sensing any danger from Dean. That’s not to say he won’t snap again, but now that Castiel knows Sam Winchester is a sensitive topic, he’ll be a bit more tactful about it. 

The minutes stretch on. Castiel hates that there isn’t a clock in the room, and hates that his watch gets confiscated every time he comes through. In some semblance he feels like _he_ is in solitary confinement whenever he’s with Dean. Cut off from the outside world, his only companion a certified psychopath, Castiel wonders idly if he himself doesn’t have some mental faculties to examine. He refrains from drumming his fingers, wiggling his knee, or doing anything that might agitate Dean; instead he waits, patient as ever, and is rewarded when Dean finally looks up. His gaze is haunted, the sockets of his eyes hollow and purple. It’s the most defeated Castiel has ever seen him. 

Something foreign twinges in his gut, a deep, connected sense of sympathy he’s never felt before. 

“Sammy’s safe, and he don’t gotta worry about the ugly in this world.”

“Because you took care of it?” Castiel asks plaintively.

“You a shrink or a reporter?” Dean asks, eyes narrowing, some of the life coming back to them.

“Journalist,” Castiel corrects idly. “I have a bachelor’s in psychology.” 

“Why?” Dean’s brow now furrows in confusion.

“Journalism is a complex field,” Castiel says honestly. “It takes more than a journalism degree and an English degree to do what I do, specifically.” 

Dean’s gaze bounces over Castiel’s face, intrigue written all over his own. “What other shiny certificates ya got?” 

“Bachelor’s in psychology,” Castiel says, and then continues. “Bachelor’s in criminal justice, forensic psychology, and law enforcement.” 

Blinking in surprise, Dean’s body language finally relaxes. There’s something like… pride?, shining in his eyes. “Why aren’t you a cop? Or detective?” 

The corners of Castiel’s lips quirk. “Too much red tape, as I’m fond of saying. I’ve actually done a lot more good as a journalist than I could as a cop, I believe.” 

“Whistleblower,” Dean deduces.

Castiel nods sagely.

“Huh,” Dean’s hands relax on the table, fingertips drumming an off-beat. “Y’got a skewed sense of justice then, huh? Fancy yourself a vigilante?” 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Castiel shrugs, also falling into a relaxed state. 

“D’you have a gun?” Dean asks, leaning forward a bit, boyish grin on his features.

“I’m licensed to carry,” Castiel says. 

Nodding slowly, Dean licks his lips and leans back again. He seems to contemplate Castiel for a few moments, before saying, “Whaddya want outta this?” 

Castiel frowns, confused. “You were the one who requested me, Dean.”

“Yeah, but,” Dean leans forward a bit, eyes bright. The subject change either has his brother totally forgotten, or Dean is as good of an actor as he’d been portrayed to be when the prosecution slaughtered him on the stand. “Let’s say it was you that requested to interview me. What could you gain? What do you _want_?” 

Castiel weighs Dean’s question thoughtfully, and when he replies, his words are careful. “I want to know the whole story.” 

Dean’s grin flashes wider. “You wanna know the whole story because there are missing pieces in it all, right?” 

Tensing his jaw, Castiel nods. “I’ve gone over all the police reports; I watched the trial; I did some of my own investigations. There are interesting… gaps of information.”

“I knew you’d notice,” Dean says, what sounds like relief flooding his baritone voice. He sinks down in his chair a bit, tipping his head back to once again expose the vulnerable underside of his throat. Castiel’s eyes train on his adam’s apple, some traitorous voice in the back of his head wondering what it’d be like to sink his teeth into it. When Dean’s chin drops and he sends Castiel an almost dopey grin, Castiel’s gut twists in a way completely foreign to every other sensation Dean has instilled in him. “I knew you’d be here.” 

The buzzer punctuates Dean’s sentence, and when Castiel stands to leave, he’s unsure as to how he lost the upperhand of that conversation so quickly.

\--

Green eyes haunt Castiel’s dreams that night. He dreams of Dean between his legs, straddling his hips, mounting him from behind; he dreams of touching his body, fingers tracing scars, mouth branding possession. He dreams of their hot, sweaty bodies grinding together, he dreams of Dean holding him reverently, lovingly, worshipful as he takes him in every sense of the word. He dreams of running his hand down Dean’s back and pulling away to find his palm red with blood, the thick, warm liquid dripping down his forearm to his bent elbow, dropping onto his chest.

Castiel wakes up in a cold sweat, cum drying on his stomach, his fingers and toes still buzzing from orgasm. 

The last image lingering in his brain is Dean on his knees, bloody and broken, begging Castiel to come back to him.

Running a harried hand through his dark, tangled locks, Castiel does his best to get his breath under control as he runs his other hand over his body, checking to make sure that there’s no blood anywhere on him. 

Clean, but for the evidence of his dream crusting on his skin, Castiel falls back against his pillows, pressing the heels of his palms roughly into his eyes. 

What the hell was that?

\--

“ _Honest & Enlightened Leading Literature_?” Dean repeats incredulously, eyes meeting Castiel’s as amusement laces his words. “You work for _H.E.L.L._?” 

“Crowley offers benefits,” Castiel says. 

Dean barks a laugh, “Anything for that 401k, right?” Once his chuckles subside, Dean settles comfortably. Castiel had opened up today’s interview by telling Dean he may ask any questions he wants, and Castiel will give him honest answers. “Alright. So: does working at _H.E.L.L._ , with benefits and a 401k, get you a nice place in the suburbs?” 

“I live in a single apartment downtown,” Castiel says.

“Alone?” Dean’s brows bounce suggestively.

“I live in a _single_ apartment, Dean. Alone.” 

“So your love life is dead, huh?” 

“I date,” Castiel replies, “casually.” 

“Ooooh,” Dean is clearly intrigued as he leans forward, shoulders shimmying in excitement. “Bringing home pretty ladies for a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, huh?” 

Castiel’s gaze doesn’t waver when he says, “I am partial to one-night stands with men who have no desire to call me back.” 

Something flashes briefly in Dean’s gaze, before he nods and settles again. “You prefer to fly solo.”

“I do not enjoy the complicated intricacies of romantic endeavors,” Castiel corrects.

“Too busy for it?” Dean queries. He leans forward again. “Or- hm. I bet you leave your dirty socks in the kitchen.”

“Bathroom,” Castiel replies dryly. 

Dean sighs dramatically, “The cute ones are always slobs.” 

“I keep a tidy home, but when I am the only one at risk of complaining about my own dirty socks, you can imagine I’m not greatly inspired to pick them up all the time.” 

Laughing brightly, chains jingling and jangling, Dean nods. “Fair, fair.” Dean’s eyes focus on Castiel’s again. “What’s your proudest achievement, to date?” 

“I once wrote an article on-”

“Not related to work,” Dean interrupts.

Castiel blinks a few times, caught off guard by that specific request. “I’m sorry?”

“What’s the best thing you’ve ever done, completely unrelated to your work as a journalist?” Dean asks patiently, like he’s the one conducting an interview with a serial killer and not the other way around.

Going reflective, Castiel stares down at the table, at his closed notebook and unused, brand new pen. The light on his recorder flashes intermittently, reminding him that it’s still recording, and for the life of him… Castiel can’t think of anything noteworthy that he’s ever done outside of writing articles and graduating at the top of his classes repeatedly. Dean seems to sense this, his voice softening as he inches forward on his chair a bit. 

“Nothin’?” Dean asks softly.

Lifting his gaze to Dean’s, Castiel is surprised, and nearly appalled, that he can’t think of anything. There’s a white fuzz, incessant in the back of his head. Silence hangs between them, and then with his voice just as soft as Dean’s, Castiel asks, “What is your proudest achievement, to date?” 

Dean looks much, much older than his twenty-six years when he replies quietly, “Saving the world.” 

\--

Castiel spends all weekend ruminating on Dean’s question. 

What has he done that could be considered noteworthy?

He knows he’s a damn good journalist. He typically gets offered the scoop on stories before they break, and he has connections all over the city - hell, all over the four surrounding states - that allow him to write an accurate, compelling article, about any and everything. He’s been published locally, nationally, _inter_ nationally. He’s been nominated for the _Pulitzer_ four times, even though every time he has politely deferred to his competition. He knows he’s good, but he doesn’t necessarily want to be publicized for his talents. Everything after college has been nearly handed to him, he’s so good at everything he’s ever tried.

At thirty-eight years old Castiel is talented, and… tired.

What does he have to show for himself? 

Outside of journalism, who is Castiel Novak?

Castiel Novak frequents Benny’s bar. He doesn’t even know what the actual name of the bar is; just knows he’s been patronizing it for the past ten years he’s lived in his shoebox apartment in a not-great-but-not-terrible part of downtown. Castiel Novak jogs every morning when he wakes up, requires nearly an entire liter of caffeine before he can function, works quietly at his desk or efficiently in the field, and then comes home to eat a healthy, organic meal, maybe have a nightcap, and read a few chapters in whatever the book of the week is before going to bed, alone, with too much space on either side of him. Occasionally Castiel Novak visits the gay bar to find someone to share a tumble with, but Castiel Novak never lets anyone stay the night, and he sure as hell never lets anyone get away with his phone number. 

Castiel Novak is an average man with an unassuming life and enough drive to be _Pulitzer_ worthy, but he doesn’t… _do_ anything.

Every time he tries to recall on details on his past the white noise returns.

His existential crisis bleeds into Monday. He tells Crowley he won’t be doing any domestic reports this week, instead choosing to go over all of Dean’s files, making detailed notes of all the holes he can gather. 

Because while Castiel might be nothing outside of his journalism, he is one hell of a journalist.

He catches up on the basics.

Dean Winchester, born to John and Mary Winchester. Mary Winchester died in a house fire. John, Dean, and Dean’s infant brother Sam escaped unharmed. John started traveling all over the country looking for menial jobs to make ends meet; they never held an address for longer than a month, and John worked mostly under the table, effectively dodging paper trails. Not much information is available on Dean’s childhood; teachers recall him being a good kid but clearly troubled, and fiercely protective of his little brother once he was old enough to attend school. Somewhere along the line, around the age of sixteen, Dean dropped out of school for good and went on to get his GED. Sam was still being enrolled in schools even as they moved, and always made excellent grades. Records indicate John fell off the face of the earth when Dean was eighteen, leaving fourteen year old Sam in his care. Dean and Sam put down roots in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where Dean got a job at a mechanic shop and was declared Sam’s legal guardian. Sam was on the fast track to graduate as valedictorian and score a full ride to Stanford, where he was planning on studying pre-law. 

When Dean was twenty, things went off the rails.

All over the country, strange deaths were being reported. People mauled with their hearts removed, people with silver bullets lodged in their bodies, people with their heads chopped clean off, people burned, cemeteries desecrated, bodies exsanguinated… it was quite a strange laundry list, with one common factor: witnesses at any of these scenes described the same man, every time. This man was a federal agent, a park ranger, a sheriff, a reporter, a student, a family member. This man injected himself into investigations and always seemed to disappear right when the strange occurrences would stop. 

This man was Dean Winchester, by all accounts of police sketches and security footage. 

There was information missing from Dean’s file, though.

Deaths and strange situations like this were happening all over the country before Dean was even born. They weren’t as widely reported, but when Dean was twenty, all of these instances seemed to increase in frequency. At first, Castiel had thought that Dean’s father, John, was the original unknown subject committing these crimes, and that when he fell off the planet Dean was following his footsteps, some twisted torch passed down from father to son. But databases aren’t that thorough the further one goes back, and even if they aren’t perfect, Castiel catches traces of similar deaths and crimes happening as far back as seventy-five years ago.

The only question is why these things spiked when Dean struck out on his own, leaving Sam with their ‘uncle’ Bobby Singer. 

Dean made the news occasionally, spotted by security cameras, or even - get this - reported _dead_. He both existed and was non-existent at the same time. Every time police questioned Sam he insisted that he hadn't heard from Dean since he was sixteen years old, and he prefers it that way, thank you very much. Police eventually stopped bothering the young Winchester. Castiel thinks there’s something there, but he’s not about to fly all the way out to California to try and shake down a kid that, for all of the evidence in front of him, could care less what his psychotic brother is getting up to.

These strange facts listed in Dean’s file without follow up or further questioning is what Castiel gets stuck on. How could these crimes be committed before even John was born? And what, exactly, caused the frequency of them to spike? Is it directly related to Dean, or is it something else?

Two weeks before Dean was apprehended, there was a frenzy across the globe. Weather patterns deviated and went from average to extreme overnight. Tornado warnings, hurricane warnings, tsunami warnings, earthquakes; animals were suddenly breaking migration patterns; the stock market crashed- 

If Castiel hadn’t known any better, he would have thought that the world was ending. 

Castiel thinks he knows better.

Well- he used to.

Now he’s not so sure.

_Saving the world_ was Dean’s greatest accomplishment. 

Dean hadn’t been caught in a blaze of glory or some widely publicized event. He had strolled into a police station in B.F.E. Kansas, held out his hands, and declared himself guilty of all charges proposed against him. Arrested on the spot, he’d been held without bond. Pamela Barnes, best criminal defense lawyer on the east coast, had been assigned his case. The media absolutely _sensationalized_ his story. Cameras weren’t allowed inside the courtroom, but they were posted up everywhere outside. Every news channel, even some non-news channels, were reporting on the Winchester case. Dean showed up to every court date in fitted suits, hair gelled, dimples on display and green eyes bright as he pleaded guilty on all counts. 

No one could fathom why he would admit to doing all of those horrendous things. No one understood why Pamela, hired to defend him, allowed him to be handed the death penalty. 

All of these pieces are in front of Castiel, and they just don’t make _sense_. Of course, the criminal justice system declared it an open-and-shut case, since Dean pleaded guilty and didn’t fight any of the charges. Other than pleading guilty, though, Dean never disclosed _why_ he did what he did. All those vicious killings, varying in violence and precision- different victimology, different weapons, different parts of the country. 

Dean never gave up the _why_ and it’s truly the story of the damn millennium. 

When Pamela, eighties rocker hair, tattoos and sunglasses, had gone on the news and announced that journalists could put their name in a drawing in order to have a chance to interview the infamous Dean Winchester before execution, Castiel had scoffed. 

A man like Dean Winchester won’t give up his secrets. It was just another cat and mouse game for him to play, another way to get his rocks off before he gets sent off to the burning hellfire waiting for him down below. 

And then Castiel’s name had been drawn… when he hadn’t even entered in the first place.

Somehow, behind iron gates and stone walls, Dean Winchester had learned of Castiel Novak. 

For some reason, Dean wanted to meet him. 

Dean wanted access to Castiel, specifically.

As Castiel stares at all the information spread out on his desk, he frowns. 

What can he offer Dean Winchester, most prolific serial killer in the history of the world?

\--

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Dean asks, the following Friday.

Castiel blinks plaintively at the other man for a moment, head tilting as he debates the question. Dean asks questions as though they’re black and white, no matter the content, as though there is no grey in the world. This seems like one of those questions, even though it, overall, is quite an absurd inquiry.

“I do not,” Castiel says.

“Why?” Dean asks.

“There is no scientific proof that they exist,” Castiel replies. His hands are folded on the table in front of him. He’s tired; his suit is rumpled, his hair wind-ruffled, and the bags under his eyes are so heavy he can feel them pressing into his cheekbones. He’s exhausted, actually. Since starting these interviews, he’s only gotten progressively more… drained.

“But there’s also no scientific proof that they _don’t_ exist.” Dean’s relaxed in his chair today, knees spread, shoulders drooped, his smile lazy. “So: you don’t believe they exist because you’ve never, personally, seen one- right?” 

“I suppose,” Castiel says, “but also, science says they can’t exist.” 

“Does science disprove the ghost theory, or does it just say there’s no feasible way for them to exist?” 

Castiel is a little taken aback by the, admittedly, intelligent conversation Dean is initiating. He doesn’t think Dean is stupid- of course, that would be very dangerous. But the glint in Dean’s eye is… curious. Amused. Hungry. _Smart_. He’s itching for this conversation, Castiel realizes. Solitary confinement and his only interactions being with people who would sooner stab him than talk with him... Letting out a breath, Castiel reaches up to gently adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose. 

“Are you aware of what a particle accelerator is?” Castiel asks. When Dean nods, Castiel continues. “The purpose of a particle accelerator is to help us understand how the universe works around us, on a subatomic level. They have helped us in a variety of ways- from developing computer chips, to frequency therapy in hospitals. When examining things on a subatomic level, there isn’t much room for error. What we see is what we are getting. In all of our observations, we’ve seen how particles decay and have even been able to recognize that there are new and unknown particles to be discovered. Now,” Castiel unclasps his hands to gesture with them, “ghosts are supposedly made up of energy. As the lore goes, they draw their energy from things like lights or batteries in the vicinity in order to materialize themselves. However, if they were made strictly of energy, they would dissipate quickly. The second law of thermodynamics proposes that energy is lost to heat, and as the lore goes, ghosts create cold spots. That alone means they cancel themselves out of existence.”

Instead of looking overwhelmed by Castiel’s explanation, Dean looks enthralled. His relaxed posture tightens with excitement and he leans forward a bit, Castiel belatedly realizing that… he is perhaps the most intelligent conversation partner Dean has had in a long, long time. 

“So, as you said, ghosts are pure energy, given the fact that they aren’t matter,” Dean says. Castiel is caught by the way his green eyes shine and dance. “So could we agree that ghosts might be a form of… _anti_ matter?” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow in thought. “I suppose I’ve never thought of it that way.” 

“Why would you?” Dean asks with a shrug, but his tone is still bright. “Here’s the thing: your particle acceleration theory is good. Not many flaws in it. But it’s still just a _theory_. Nothin’ has been proved or not; all we know is what we haven’t _seen_ yet. And when we don’t see something, it’s not _not_ proof.” Putting his elbows on the table, Dean runs his hands through his hair, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “Now, antimatter. A gram of antimatter could produce an explosion the size of a nuclear bomb, right? Shit’s powerful stuff. It’s raw _energy_ , which we argue ghosts are made of. So in a sense, ghosts, made of energy, are made of antimatter particles, which for sure, one-hundred percent exist. _But_ ,” Dean turns a grin towards Castiel, “if all the antimatter ever made by humans, living people, were annihilated at once… shit, you wouldn’t have enough energy to shock yourself on a doorknob.” 

Sitting back in his seat, Castiel feels himself _bewildered_ at this turn of events. Serial killer Dean Winchester, most famous man currently alive, volatile and bloody down to his core… is discussing particle science with an investigative journalist in a locked, secluded room in a maximum security prison. Swallowing thickly, Castiel’s brain finally catches up with Dean’s words, and he nods. 

“So the existence of antimatter sorta makes the particle accelerator theory against ghosts, in this case, moot. Because even with your fancy thermodynamics sayin’ that ghosts cancel themselves out by being cold instead of hot, the fact of the matter remains: ghosts are made of energy and are the antithesis of matter, a.k.a. antimatter.”

Castiel removes his glasses from his features, rubbing his eyes idly. He’s doing a lot more thinking than he’s had to do since… well, university, and even though his brain is picking it up like riding a bike, he’s still suffering a bit of whiplash.

“Alright,” he finally concedes. “There is no way to prove or disprove the existence of ghosts so long as clashing theories and scientific experiments exist.” After a moment of taking in Dean’s nearly childlike excitement at his concession, Castiel finally thinks to ask, “Do _you_ believe in ghosts?” 

Dean’s expression softens a bit, but his eyes are still bright. “It’s not that I believe in things, Cas. It’s that I’ve spent my whole life fighting ‘em.” 

The buzzer sounds. Castiel is left in the stark white room, his head spinning.

Dean believes in ghosts. 

Why does this feel like something monumental?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the greatest gift this fandom has given me is you.
> 
> we stan nerd!dean and i will smite any naysayers
> 
> ref [1](https://www.independent.co.uk/news/science/ghosts-brian-cox-large-hadron-collider-cern-real-truth-standard-model-physics-a7598026.html), [2](https://www.energy.gov/articles/how-particle-accelerators-work), [3](https://www.symmetrymagazine.org/article/april-2015/ten-things-you-might-not-know-about-antimatter), [4](https://www.quora.com/What-is-a-particle-decelerator)


	4. Chapter 4

In the time spent apart from Dean, Castiel regains his energy. It never peaks, though; it stays as a steady buzz, enough for him to drag himself out of bed and to work every single day, enough to make sure he eats and caffeinates and turns in tasks on time. It’s enough to continue to visit Benny’s bar, though those trips tend to dwindle in length, and it’s enough to keep up the illusion that he’s a normal, functioning human.

With Dean Castiel feels physically exhausted, but mentally charged. It’s almost as though his brain is sucking up so much energy with all the thinking Dean incites that Castiel’s body can’t keep up. 

One and a half months until Dean will be executed. 

“If it was your last night on earth,” Dean says, all his boyish energy and charm muted to softness around the lines of his face, “what would you do?” 

Castiel drums his fingers idly on the table. “Read a trashy romance novel.” 

That startles a laugh out of Dean, his handsome face transforming as he sends Castiel a quizzical look. “Alright, forgetting the fact you had an answer prepared: a trashy romance novel? Really?” 

Shrugging, Castiel pulls his glasses off of his nose and runs a hand through his hair. “Why not? I avoid them at all costs, but I think… getting lost in the mundane and overdramatic problems of others would be a good way to pass the time, not thinking about my own impending doom. The vocabulary and word count of those books isn’t great, so there’s a good chance I would be able to finish it before my demise.”

“You really want the last images in your head to be about Brett’s ‘rock hard girth slipping into my slick, sweet folds, our souls entwining as we become one’?” Dean asks. 

Castiel sends him a wry smile. “At least someone would be getting action before I die.” 

Dean snorts, shaking his head in amusement. “Well. Points for creativity.” 

“Sounds like you have an intimate knowledge of trashy romance novels yourself, so don’t try to act better than me about it,” Castiel replies, trying his damnedest to not let a smirk curl his lips. 

Raising his hands in supplication, Dean chuckles again. “Fair, fair.” 

“What about you?” Castiel asks. His eyes flick down to his recorder, the light flashing intermittently, reminding him that this is an interview to try and get more information out of Dean. So far each meeting has been a drawn out conversation, but Dean somehow gets everything to turn on its head and focus on Castiel. Castiel is long past thinking that he leads these interviews, but he still tries to keep them on track whenever he can pull himself out of the depths of Dean’s lush spring green irises long enough to remember that he’s here as an investigative journalist, not some sort of long lost friend. 

Dean shakes his head, smiling ruefully down at the table. “Nothin’ special. Just keep doin’ what I normally do.” 

Castiel is suddenly aware that soon, it _will_ be Dean’s last night on earth. He shifts in his chair, today wearing jeans and a red patterned button-down, and then licks his lips. “You wouldn’t have any special requests?”

“D’you know how many last nights on earth I’ve had in the past thirty years, man?” Dean asks, his gaze lifting to pierce directly into Castiel’s. Ice freezes over Castiel’s nervous system, sticking him to the uncomfortable chair in a rigid position. “They kinda lose their sparkle after the ninth or tenth spin. The past six years have been the worst. This reset button is nearly impossible to find, but...” That odd, fond glint flashes in his eyes. “I think this time might do the trick.”

Licking his lips, Castiel manages to get his fingers and hand working enough to grab his glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on his nose. He’s fidgeting. He hates fidgeting. Dean’s math doesn’t add up. “Why have you had so many close calls with death?” 

“Death,” Dean huffs out a laugh. “Now she’s a hoot. If she’d join the fuckin’ party we’d actually be golden.” 

Castiel’s jaw clenches, the white noise buzzing incessantly for a few seconds before subsiding. A few things start clicking in his head. When he’s sure his head won’t start buzzing again, he says, “You passed your psyche evals.”

Dean’s beautiful, plush lips stretch in a smile, losing none of their fullness. 

“You have bipolar two,” Castiel recites from memory. “You have severe, manic depressive episodes, you tend to have problems with aggression and alcohol, but other than that you don’t suffer from any sort of psychosis.”

Dean nods. His freckles are bleached pale under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the room. Castiel wonders what they look like when the sun is kissing them.

“How does a sane man, then, get brought in for psychopathic behavior?” 

“Psychopathic _behavior_ and sanity aren’t mutually exclusive, Cas.” 

Castiel’s gut swoops. He wants to believe it’s from Dean’s smart comment and not from the nickname. “I suppose that’s true.” He shifts again in his chair. Dean’s eyes track the way Castiel’s forearms flex when he laces his fingers on the table. Goosebumps erupt on his skin, but he continues. “However, serial killers like Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer suffered from delusions, yet had moments where they fit into the neat bubble of society. I’m just trying to understand, Dean,” Castiel says, his tongue fattening and wetting with Dean’s name on it. He swallows, and then continues. “I am trying to understand how a man who passes all his psychological evaluations with flying colors can tell me that he’s been hunting monsters for the better part of his life.” His head tilts. “Unless monsters are a metaphor?” 

Dean stays quiet for a moment, and then lets out a slow breath. “That’s the easy option, right? All those fancy doctors saying that monsters are a metaphor for my shitty childhood. Talkin’ about the fact that I sold my body to gross men and then sought revenge on them later, or whatever, and made them up as monsters in my head to cope.” The way Dean’s smile flashes twists slightly at the edges. “That doesn’t explain the women I’ve killed. Kids.”

Taking in a deep breath, Castiel’s fingers twitch. “You once told me you killed things, Dean. Now you are referring to your victims as people.” 

“‘Cause that’s easy for you to understand,” Dean says, leaning back against his chair. “Doesn’t make it true. I’m just tryna have your conversation.”

“ _My_ conversation?” Castiel blinks in surprise.

“Yeah,” Dean says, folding his arms over his chest. Castiel resolutely doesn’t look at the way the short sleeves cut across his biceps. “This ain’t my conversation. Or even _a_ conversation. This is you tryna get information outta me regarding all the shit I did and if we’re gonna have it, I gotta edit it so that you understand. Because if ghouls and monsters and ghosts are off the table…” Dean’s gaze drops to the D-ring where his chains are pulled taut. “...then that makes _me_ the monster. Which is precisely what everyone wants to believe.” 

A weird anger burns in Castiel’s gut at Dean’s words. “Why does it matter what _we_ believe? Why isn’t _your_ truth important, too? You’re going to die for things you insist were necessary, you’re going to die a sane man who occasionally drinks too much and punches walls to cope with a severely traumatized childhood. How is that fair?” 

The outburst falls quiet, the walls of the room nearly shrinking in on them when Castiel realizes what he’s said. His eyes widen behind his frames, color draining from his face, and then he fumbles a hand to the panic button under the table, pressing it. No noise blares from anywhere, but some lights flash and then Victor is coming through the heavy door with a thunderous expression. Castiel stands, holding his hands up.

“There’s no problem,” Castiel says quickly. “I simply wish to end the interview early, please.” 

Victor looks suspiciously between them. Dean’s expression hasn’t changed - he’s staring at Castiel with wide eyes, slack-jawed, and Castiel thinks he almost looks… wondrous. He goes without complaint when Victor unhooks his chains, doesn’t say anything as he’s escorted away, and when Castiel is left alone in the room he realizes how hard his heart is pounding. He pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and mops his sweaty face, nearly dislodging his glasses, before pressing the fabric over his mouth as his pulse jackrabbits against his throat. 

There’s no way he just defended Dean Winchester, most prolific serial killer in the world. 

Only, he did.

\--

Castiel spends the weekend with a bottle of scotch and so much research spread over his home desk he’s pretty sure he’s responsible for part of the deforestation in South America. After his outburst with Dean Castiel had come home, knocked himself out with some pills, and then woke up with a weird determination to look through all of Dean’s records.

_You’re an investigative journalist,_ he told himself when he woke up late Saturday morning. _Investigate._

So he goes back to the beginning. John Winchester. His run-ins with the law started when Dean was about five or six years old, and Dean’s record doesn’t pop up until he’s twelve. Castiel broadens his search from whatever John gets into trouble with to cast a net for anything else happening in the same town at the same time. At first, it’s odd things. Like fatal animal attacks, car crashes on windy roads; seemingly run of the mill stuff. But these are things that happen and seem to attract John to them days later, and he spends about a week in town before moving on. In pretty much all animal attack cases, there’s no reports of any more animal attacks for the next… well, ever. Cars stop crashing on windy roads, at least not with so much frequency. It seems so miniscule, so insignificant at first, but then as Castiel digs and follows John Winchester across the continental United States, he starts to see a pattern.

Things that local law enforcement can’t or won’t look into suddenly get resolved. Bank robberies, murder sprees; one week a city or town will be rife with them, and then in the next, nothing. But there’s no police record of anything getting resolved, and Castiel is finding himself getting frustrated at the lack of procedure following any of these cases. The people in these cities and towns seem to be fine in accepting that their problem has been solved, and move on. Almost like nothing happened in the first place. John’s mugshot made it into a few publications, but his implications in anything seemed to have been glossed over quickly.

It doesn’t look like John Winchester is bringing trouble with him, it looks like he’s following trouble and… getting rid of it. 

Elbows on the desk, Castiel cards his fingers through his hair and pulls. He should probably drink some water and eat food that isn’t microwaveable, but he feels like if he stops now he’ll lose his steam and lose track of where he is. It’s easier to work through the aches and pains and complaints of his body than it is to stop and take a break and pick things up again. 

So. Keep going, Castiel.

John Winchester dies, but America’s problems continue to get solved.

Wiping a hand over his mouth, stubble having grown into a short beard, Castiel stares at his computer monitor. For a few moments he does nothing. He stares at Dean Winchester’s mugshot from the first time he was officially arrested at the age of seventeen, caught too many times for juvie to want to deal with him anymore, and tries to see into his head. In the mugshot Dean is smirking, corner of his lip pulled up and brow relaxed as he stares into the camera.

It’s the expression of a man that knows he’ll be free soon. 

Like he’s still got a job to do.

Standing abruptly, Castiel curses and pulls his threadbare shirt away from his chest a few times, fanning himself with it. He’s biased. He’s obviously attracted to Dean, hell, he’s been _enjoying_ their conversations as much as he’s been terrified of them, and he must be buying into Dean’s story. 

Story.

Not psychosis.

Not delusion.

Dean has passed all of his evaluations with flying colors.

A guy with a temper, mood swings, and a drinking problem...

… Who happens to have a kill sheet longer than Castiel’s leg.

“Siri,” Castiel says into the darkness of his office. His computer tells him it’s four in the afternoon on a Saturday. His phone lights up. “Call Charlie Bradbury.” 

Charlie picks up on the fourth ring. “Greetings Grand Master Novak, what conspiracies can I break open today?”

“Dean Winchester.”

He has to look down at his phone to make sure the call is still connected when Charlie doesn’t reply for ten seconds.

“Dean Winchester…?” Charlie’s voice is meek. “ _The_ Dean Winchester?” 

Castiel sinks into his cushy rolly chair, slumping into terrible posture that his nearly middle-aged body will protest to in about five minutes. “I’ve been granted his final interviews.”

“Holy serial killers, Batman! Why didn’t you tell me?” Charlie nearly squeals. 

“Only _H.E.L.L._ and Dean’s lawyer know,” Castiel puts his elbows on the arms of the chair so he can start massaging his temples. “I’ve been meeting him every Friday for the last month and a half.”

“Hoy frack.” He can hear clacking on Charlie’s end, meaning she’s at her computer and furiously typing. “Ok. Ok, whaddya want? You know, one time I looked into the guy and saw some crazy stuff in some police records. But my system got flagged and I had to get out of that corner of the internet really quick.”

Castiel frowns. “You’ve looked into him before… and got caught?”

“Yeah,” Charlie replies. “It was super weird. The last time I got kicked out of snooping on something was when I was checking to see if the NSA had my phone tapped. Spoiler alert: they did.” 

Castiel blinks rapidly. “You got kicked out of snooping on _Dean Winchester_?” 

“Yeah. Freaky, right? Like, why would his files be protected like that?” She’s chattering excitedly. “I’ve been following everything since he got arrested. I tried to do my own digging but all I can get at are public records of police reports. When I tried digging into the FBI database-” 

“Charlie.” 

Charlie falls quiet, and Castiel thinks his heart slows to a stop inside his chest.

“We need to get Dean off of death row.” 

“What?” Charlie blurts.

“If what you’re telling me is true - and I know you’ve never lied to me - Dean’s being protected by the government, or someone important. For some reason. I’ve been meeting with him for hours, Charlie. He insists that he didn’t kill anything that wasn’t worth killing.”

“People,” Charlie says carefully.

“What?”

“He didn’t kill any _people_ worth killing,” she says, tone of voice carefully neutral.

Castiel’s heart drops. “Right. Yes.” 

“So the whole vigilante thing… you think there’s substance to that?” 

“I do,” Castiel says. “You haven’t talked to him, Charlie. I get locked in a room with him for sixty minutes every Friday. We had a conversation about particle accelerators and thermodynamics.”

Charlie whistles. “Pretty _and_ smart, huh?” 

“Something’s not right,” Castiel continues. “He’s accepting his fate even though he insists he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Kinda easy to lose your fighting spirit when you’re in solitary confinement for literally every minute of every day.”

A moment passes, and then Castiel lets out a shaky breath. “Can you find Sam Winchester?”

“His brother?” Charlie asks, confusion in her voice. “Why?” 

“Just a phone number. I don’t need to know where he is, I would just like to talk to him.”

“Dude, he’s never interviewed before. He’s iced everyone out. Last I read he’s attending some fancy lawyer college in California and basically pretends like his brother isn’t locked up in maximum security.” 

“When I asked Dean about him he flipped out,” Castiel runs his hands through his hair repeatedly, tugging on the strands, sending tingles through his scalp to try and help ground himself. The buzz is humming ever so slightly under his scalp. “Sam’s the missing piece.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, the click-clack of Charlie’s fingers on her keyboard muted, but still furious. “Yeah, I can find his number for you. But are you sure it’s a good idea to contact him?” 

“I need to know more,” Castiel says, conviction filling his voice. He’s a madman, alone in his apartment, surrounded by printouts and a map tacked up on the wall with red string criss-crossing the length of it. “I need to save Dean Winchester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "jillian, all you post are cliffhangers!"  
> *blows nose delicately into a tissue*


	5. Chapter 5

On Tuesday Castiel leaves the office early so he can take his work to the privacy of his own home. He’s still only working on the Winchester case, and Crowley hasn’t bothered him about it, but for all the digging he wants to do he’d be much more comfortable at home doing it. Besides, he’d asked Charlie to come over so they can hunker down and do research together. Charlie had been scared off of Dean’s trail once, but she claims she found a back door and a way to sneak in undetected. It was a no brainer to tell Charlie to pack a bag and come stay with him for a few days.

When he gets home Charlie is at his kitchen table, having let herself in with her spare key. She had brought her desktop computer, three (three!) monitors, along with two laptops. All of her tech is spread out on Castiel’s table as well as on the counter space he doesn’t typically use. 

“Hey!” She greets, perky as ever. Her fingers are clack-clacking away.

“Hey,” Castiel greets gruffly. She came in and set up while he was at work, and he hasn’t seen her for a few months, so he drops his bag on the couch and makes a beeline for her. Once he’s close enough he brings her head into his chest, making her squawk out a surprised laugh before her arms come up around his waist. He presses a kiss to the top of her fiery red hair, giving her shoulders a firm squeeze before pulling away.

“Nice beard,” she says, a twinkle in her eye.

“Basic human functions like shaving are low on my priority list.”

Charlie takes a deep whiff of the air. “Well, you don’t stink, and your apartment doesn’t stink, so at least there’s that.” 

“I clean when I can’t sleep and need to focus on something,” Castiel says distractedly. From behind Charlie’s chair he leans over, peering at the monitors. “What have you got?”

“Sam Winchester,” Charlie pats the middle monitor affectionately. “Mama Red is closing in.” 

“Why is it so difficult to find him?” Castiel wonders aloud. He moves towards the fridge, groaning in appreciation when he opens the door to see that Charlie had brought fresh groceries with her. Sometimes he thinks she knows him too well.

“My bet is witness protection,” Charlie says. “Dean’s being protected by the government while locked up, and Sam’s being protected out in the free world.”

“It’s not fair that Dean is locked up while Sam can go out and lead a normal life.” Castiel leans against the open fridge door, staring morosely at a carton of eggs. He’s starving, but doesn’t have the energy to cook.

“We don’t know what’s fair or not, yet,” Charlie reminds him, though not unkindly. “I know you’ve got a gut feeling about Dean, and your gut feelings are always spot on, but we still gotta be sure before we can jump the gun on anything.”

Castiel straightens and closes the fridge, opening the freezer. There’s fresh meat packaged neatly next to his TV dinners, and his eyes bounce between the two with indecision. 

“Close the freezer, you heathen, I’m gonna make us dinner while you shower.” 

“While I shower?” Castiel repeats, turning a frown towards Charlie. “You said I don’t stink.” 

“No, but you look like you could use a hot one anyway,” Charlie says with a grin. She gets out of the chair, twists her back to crack it, and then pats Castiel on his furry cheek. “Maybe get rid of this thing too, huh?” 

Castiel scratches his beard thoughtfully. “Hmh,” is the only noise he makes before he leaves Charlie to head to the bathroom. After shutting the door he hears the faint sound of Charlie banging around with pots and pans, and then lets out a sigh. He should have called Charlie sooner. He’s been drowning with these interviews and hadn’t even realized it. She’s right: he’s a mess, even if he puts up a good front. She knows him too well. 

Resisting a sigh, he turns on the shower and cranks the dial to red. He strips out of his clothes and hisses when the scalding water hits his rapidly pinkening skin, but forces himself under the spray and reaches up to wet his hair. Cleaning himself is mechanical, but he at least takes his time with it. He’s not dirty, but touching himself like this is a sort of comfort, so he takes his time dragging the washcloth over the dips and planes of his body. He tries to keep his mind blank, but when he reaches down to wash his groin, a flash of Dean Winchester’s smile plasters itself behind his closed lids. 

Snapping his eyes open, Castiel huffs out a surprised breath. No. No way. He clenches his teeth and cleans himself and then drags the cloth elsewhere on his body, trying to empty his mind again. The hot water is now soothing, steam rising and clouding near the ceiling. Of course, because nothing can go right in his life, his cock starts to thicken as more images of Dean flip through his brain like a rolodex. How he looks when he smiles, when he laughs, when he’s thoughtful. Replayed images of him caught on surveillance cameras, all bowlegged swagger and Kansas boy charm. 

Castiel hasn’t thought of Dean like this during waking hours. He’s had a few embarrassing dreams that either left him hard and aching or spent and sticky, but he’s done a pretty fine job of keeping his alert brain free of anything… compromising, regarding the man. But here he is, defenses down because Charlie is on his side ready to help him figure out the giant mystery surrounding the Winchester clan, and he feels… so, _so_ exhausted. He slumps a little, leaning against the tiled wall, which isn’t even cool because the temperature of the water is so hot. His temple rests against the wall as well, his eyes closing as he forces himself to take a few deep, calming breaths. 

He’s attracted to Dean. It’s not the end of the world. Every day he’s less sure of the fact that Dean is a psychopath his attraction grows. Attraction. Attachment? No. He can’t be attached to a man on death row. There’s a good chance they won’t be able to find anything and Dean will be sent to sleep. 

But he’ll have met Castiel.

And Castiel will have met him.

Is that enough?

Opening his eyes, blinking away the moisture on his lashes that could either be from the shower or himself, he lets out a slow breath. This is stupid. He can’t get emotional over a serial killer. He has a gut instinct, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that Dean, and probably his father too, has criss-crossed all over the country killing… things? People? Castiel closes his eyes again, this time newspaper headlines flashing before his eyes. Animal attacks mysteriously stop, people no longer drowning in local lake, bank teller exonerated from robbing her own vault.

When he’s with Dean he does feel a thrill.

Is that thrill related to the danger of being around Dean Winchester, most prolific serial killer in the history of modern man?

Or is it, instead, Castiel’s own personal thrill at being secluded in a room for one hour every Friday, the most gorgeous man he’s ever laid eyes on sitting across from him? 

Is it a thrill, or is it… profound?

He turns off the shower. He draws back the curtain and grabs his towel from the rack on the wall, drying off his legs and feet before stepping out of the tub and onto the floor mat. He dries off the rest of his body and scrubs the towel messily over his hair to collect most of the moisture, before gently patting his beard. Wiping away the condensation on the mirror he takes a good look at himself. His beard isn’t awful. It’s a little unkempt, but he sort of likes it. Normally he’s clean-shaven, pristine and tidy, but not having to bother with the maintenance of shaving every day (literally every day, he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to shave away his five o’clock shadow) has been nice.

He opens the mirror to grab his clippers. He won’t shave it completely off, but he will tame it at the very least. His fingers fumble around a few jars and bottles until he comes across some beard oil he picked up ages ago. Checking the label to make sure it’s still good, he sets it down on the counter. Trimming and cleaning himself up doesn’t take long, and when he’s done he looks a bit more like himself. He quickly takes care of his mess and then wraps the towel around his waist, opening up the door to the bathroom and releasing all the steam directly into Charlie’s face.

“Woah!” she recoils and waves her hand in front of her face, laughing. “I was just coming to make sure you’re still alive.”

“I am,” Castiel says. Charlie moves aside so he can pass her and walk through the living room towards the opposite side of his apartment, where his bedroom is. The guest bedroom-slash-office is directly next to the bathroom, which is actually ideal, but the room Castiel chose is larger and has a better view of the sunset. He hears Charlie trailing after him and doesn’t bother shutting his door. She’s seen everything over the course of their friendship. They’ve been friends so long it’s hard to put a number on the years. 

One day she wasn’t there, and then the next, she was.

“I finally got a ping on Sam. It’s too late to call him now, but do you wanna call him tomorrow?” She asks, leaning in his doorway and folding her arms over her chest. 

Castiel opens his dresser to fish out a fresh pair of boxers. Now that the scent from his own shampoo isn’t clouding his senses, he can smell something delicious in the kitchen. He drops his towel and pulls on his boxers, “I trust you figured out when would be a good time to call him?”

“He has morning classes from eight til noon, and a break until four. He doesn’t work at his part-time job tomorrow so that would be a good time to call him.” 

“Should I know how you gathered this information?” Castiel asks a bit wryly, grabbing pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt.

“You knew you were breaking the law the moment you called me~” Charlie sing-songs happily, before leaving Castiel’s room.

He snorts to himself as he gets dressed. In a way, Charlie sort of reminds him of Dean, and vice-versa. Maybe that’s why he can’t quite sort himself out; Dean feels… familiar to him, somehow. Once he’s dressed and cozy he leaves his bedroom and wanders back into the kitchen, where Charlie has extended the lip of the table and put up a barrier of books so they can eat without the threat of accidentally getting any food on Charlie’s tech. It’s a sweet gesture. Castiel doesn’t really feel like eating on the couch. She made homemade mac n’ cheese, and because Castiel knows Charlie he knows it’s the vegan kind, but he doesn’t really care. She’s a surprisingly excellent cook, considering how much time she doesn’t spend in the kitchen. 

Through dinner they catch up. Charlie only lives a few cities over, so it’s not impossible for them to see each other, but they’re both so busy with their jobs it’s hard to make time. When Charlie isn’t illegally hacking into government databases she runs a Boys And Girls Club, where she gives wayward youths a safe place to gather and connect and have fun. Things on both sides have been pretty mundane and boring, Castiel’s jail visits notwithstanding, and once dinner is done and the dishes are cleared away, exhaustion settles over Castiel like a blanket.

“You look like heck,” Charlie says, sympathy in her voice. “When’s the last time you had a full, _good_ night of sleep?” 

“Probably when I was a baby,” Castiel replies seriously. He’s leaning against the half-wall that separates the kitchen from the living room, arms folded over his chest, chin lowered slightly as Charlie sets her programs to auto-run for the night. 

“I mean- normally you’re kind of a low energy dude,” Charlie continues. “It’s part of your sparkling personality, but you seem… super drained. Like, one-percent charge.” 

Castiel smears a hand down his features. “Ever since I started interviewing Dean, I haven’t slept through the night. I…” he licks his lips. “I either have nightmares, or very vivid dreams.”

“About…?” Charlie’s voice is concerned as she finishes doing whatever she’d been occupied with. She stands next to Castiel, putting a hand on his bicep. 

“Dean, mostly,” Castiel sighs. “I’ll have nightmares about him killing me in the interview room, or I’ll have dreams where I’m…” he furrows his brow, trying to piece together his dreams with his waking brain. “With him.”

“With him?” Charlie asks, waggling her brows and elbowing him gently to clearly try and break some of the tension.

That earns her an eyeroll. “With him as in, with him when he commits murder. Like I’m alongside him… helping.” 

“Oh,” Charlie deflates a little. “That’s… heavy.”

Castiel pushes off of the wall, offering Charlie a clearly forced smile. “I’ve got your help now, though. I think I might sleep a little better.” It’s a lie, but he doesn’t want Charlie to be worried about him.

It does perk her up. She gives him a quick, tight hug. “If you wake up you can wake me up, too, ok?” 

His smile melts into something a bit more genuine as he gently pets her red hair back from her forehead, meeting her gaze. “Go sleep.” 

She presses into his touch briefly before she heads to the bathroom, doing whatever it is women do to get ready for bed. Castiel walks over to his medicine cabinet, opening it up and scanning the bottles within. He doesn’t have anything hardcore, but anything with something to make him sleep… Ah. NyQuil. He knocks back a shot of the medicine, rinses his mouth, and then shuffles towards his bedroom. He leaves the door open, strips to his boxers, and then climbs into bed. The combination of NyQuil and his own personal exhaustion have him blissfully out within minutes, the city bustling outside of his slightly ajar window.

\--

If Castiel dreamed anything, he doesn’t remember them upon waking. He actually feels a little more rested than normal and considers himself lucky, as he gets out of bed and dresses for the day. When he exits his room he doesn’t see any sign of Charlie and finally checks the clock - it’s just past six a.m., and it figures he’d be wide awake at this God awful hour. Charlie had bought plenty of groceries but Castiel knows she likes the coffee shop down the block, so he pockets his phone, puts on his shoes, and slips out the door. The air is cool against his face, waking him up fully, and he takes a deep lungful as his hands go into his pockets. 

The sidewalks are bustling with midweek errands, people on their way to work mostly, dressed in business attire as they hail cabs, wait for the bus, or walk to their destination. Castiel lets his gaze slide between the passersby, not focusing on a single person, merely absorbing their presence and energies. Inside the coffee shop is subdued, a few patrons at tables and half a dozen in line. Castiel relaxes, looking up at the menu. Charlie will drink anything with lots of caffeine and sugar, so she’s pretty easy to shop for. His eyes drop to the display case, noting that he can build a mix-and-match of a half-dozen muffins, and when it’s his turn to order he relays everything. 

As he taps his phone to the pin pad machine to pay, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The barista is busy boxing the muffins, so Castiel tries to casually glance around the cafe. No one is looking at him or paying him any mind. Frowning slightly, he pulls his phone away after the pin pad beeps and pockets it, then quickly schools his features into a polite smile when the barista hands him the box and the drink carrier with the opposite corners occupied by his and Charlie’s drinks. 

The moment he steps out of the cafe, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up again. Keeping his gait slow, Castiel turns his head this way and that to see if anyone is looking at him. It’s a strange sensation, feeling like you’re being watched; even stranger when you can’t see anyone with their eyes on you. Humans have an innate, unexplained sixth sense about outside observation, and it typically isn’t wrong. Strolling leisurely, Castiel decides that he’s probably being paranoid. Between the crazy dreams and meeting with a serial killer every week, he’s surprised he hasn’t covered his apartment in tinfoil. 

A hand shoots out and grabs Castiel by the front of his shirt, yanking him into an alleyway. Reflexively tightening his grip on the items in hand so he doesn’t spill them, a surprised breath gusts out of his mouth as he’s pinned up against a brick wall. The man in front of him is wearing a three-piece suit and looks like any other professional on their way to work this morning, his hair coal black and his eyes a startling shade of blue. 

“You’re _meddling_ , Castiel,” the man hisses. 

“Unhand me,” Castiel replies, eyes narrowing.

The man’s gaze bounces over Castiel’s face, and then lands on the food and drinks in his hands. The intensity of the stranger’s expression melts into confusion and he takes a step back, seeming to collect himself. “You’re… not you.” 

Free of the man’s iron grip, Castiel shakes out his shoulders a bit. “I am Castiel.” His gaze stays narrowed, jaw tense. “Do I know you?”

“How can this be?” The man’s voice is bewildered, his gaze taking in Castiel’s rumpled appearance of faded, torn jeans and an old AC/DC shirt. As suddenly as he’d gotten confused, his expression morphs into rage. “ _How can this be?_ ” His voice grows thunderous, and Castiel is fairly certain the clouds overhead start to darken. 

“It is very unfortunate that you are confused,” Castiel starts to say, his shoes scuffing across the gravel as he backs up. He’s only slightly scared, but mostly concerned as to how this stranger knows his name and seems to be upset that Castiel doesn’t know him in return. “But I must be on my way.” 

The man comes to himself, getting back in Castiel’s space, although this time he doesn’t touch him. Instead his gaze burns with righteous fury, and when the light in the alley shifts, Castiel catches sight of an enormous, dark shadow protruding from the man’s back to cast on the building behind him. 

Wings.

“You will not succeed,” the man growls. “You will _burn_ , again and again, for all eternity, _traitor_.”

In a blink, the man is gone. Castiel whips his head around the alley so quickly it tweaks his neck and he winces, rolling his shoulders. He looks down at his coffee and muffins, surprised to see them unsullied, and then lets out a shaky sigh. What on earth just happened?

The walk back to the apartment is much quicker than when he left. He shoulders open the door and is relieved to see Charlie sitting at the kitchen table with her face in her hands, sleepy and disgruntled. She perks up when he enters, then basically glows when he hands her coffee, setting everything else on the table. 

“I just had a very strange encounter,” Castiel says, sitting across from her.

“Mmm?” Charlie hums a positive noise, lips sealed around the hole in the lid of her coffee.

“At first I thought I was going to be mugged,” Castiel says, wrapping his hands around his own cup, allowing the warmth to absorb into his palms. That catches Charlie’s attention and she squawks out a “What!?” before Castiel continues. “But then he started saying strange things. And, he knew my name.”

Charlie’s eyes are nearly bugging out of her head. “You’re being crazy calm for someone who just had a nearly almost violent encounter.”

“He was angry,” Castiel says thoughtfully, “but he also seemed confused. He knew my name, but he said I wasn’t… ‘me’. Whatever that means.” He finally takes a drink of his coffee.

Charlie glances around the kitchen suspiciously. “Alright, where do you hide it, and why can’t I smell it?”

Castiel sends her a puzzled glance.

She rolls her eyes, “The marijuana you’re _clearly_ smoking because you are _way_ too calm about literally everything that happens in your life.” 

He snorts and waves a hand, “You know I don’t smoke.” He rests his elbow on the table, chin in hand. “I don’t suppose you could find a person based on description alone?”

“Depends on where you were,” Charlie says, switching gears. She downs half her coffee and opens up the muffin box. “Did you notice any cameras?” 

“No, but I wasn’t looking,” he says, grabbing a poppyseed muffin while Charlie goes for the blueberry. “I was a block east of here when it happened.”

“Mmmh,” Charlie stuffs the muffin into her mouth and holds it there with just her teeth, pulling over her wireless keyboard and tapping around on the keys. Castiel sits quietly, eating his muffin and watching her fingers move with idle interest. After a few moments she takes the muffin out of her mouth and grins, pointing at the monitor on the right, “There we go. It’s a pawn shop, so they have surveillance in that alley.” 

They both shift so they can watch the events unfold on the screen. Castiel walks into frame at the mouth of the alley, and the stranger seems to materialize out of nowhere before immediately pushing Castiel up against the wall. Charlie pauses the video, and they both stare at the screen. 

“Where did he come from?” Charlie asks.

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies. “I thought he’d been waiting in the alley for me, judging on the way he grabbed me and the direction he pulled me in.”

“Huh,” Charlie rewinds a fraction and then hits play again.

Video-Castiel gets shoved up against the wall by a man who, going off of looks alone, doesn’t seem strong enough to beat him in an arm wrestling contest. There’s no audio, so Castiel relays the conversation verbatim to Charlie, and then the camera feed gets fuzzy and rolls on itself before it clears and Castiel is alone in the alley.

“He just?” Charlie leans forward, rewinding the footage and playing it again. “Disappears? When the cameras go all fuzzy?” 

Castiel presses his thumb to his lower lip, frowning. “I’ve never seen him before. He’d been watching me since I entered the cafe, but I didn’t see him among the patrons.” 

“Dude,” Charlie turns towards Castiel, eyes wide. “This is freaky. Like, woo-woo freaky.” 

Castiel starts picking apart his muffin. “Have I told you what Dean has told me? About his victims?” 

“Other than the fact he’s sure they all deserved to die?” Charlie asks flatly.

It’s the first time he’s saying this out loud to anyone, but the instant he opens his mouth he feels a weight lifting off his shoulders. “He says they were all monsters of some sort. Ghost, ghoul, werewolf, vampire. Things that go bump in the night.”

Charlie stares at Castiel silently. 

“He’s a very intelligent man,” Castiel continues. “He’s passed all of his psyche evals. He’s certified _sane_ , and yet he talks about these supernatural monstrosities like he’s actually come across them in real life.” 

“Delusions are pretty convincing-” Charlie starts to say.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head sharply. “He’s not delusional, Charlie. All of the mental health professionals he’s seen have signed him off as bipolar, and nothing more. He’s certainly not psychotic. Well- perhaps a _little_ psychotic, but anyone who has killed as many people as he has, no matter the reason, has to be.”

“Are you telling me that you _believe_ him? About the- about his victims being monsters and not _people_?” Charlie sounds absolutely incredulous, and Castiel doesn’t blame her. 

Letting out a sigh, Castiel drains his coffee. “Let me show you my work. Then, you can make your own decisions about what you believe.”

\--

“Holy crap,” Charlie says, after two hours of silence while Castiel relayed to her every bit of information he has uncovered not only on Dean, but John Winchester as well. “Holy Ghostbusters, Batman, this shit is CRAZY. How long have you been sitting on this information?”

“All of it?” Castiel asks, staring at the mess of papers on his coffee table. “Collectively, perhaps three weeks. Making the connection of his dad’s journey to Dean’s journey started out as a wild hair and then finally caught. My research on Dean started the moment I got off the phone with Pamela.”

“ _Oh,_ Pamela!” Charlie suddenly yells, standing up from the couch and practically vaulting over the coffee table on her way into the kitchen. “I almost forgot, I’m such an idiot!”

Castiel blinks at the empty couch his best friend had just been occupying, and then follows her at a more sedate pace. “What about Pamela?”

“Ok, so,” Charlie plops down in a chair in front of her computer, typing and clicking away. “When she was announced as Dean’s lawyer the dark web went all abuzz. I had no idea why, until I started scanning through encrypted messages.”

“Encrypted?” Castiel blinks in confusion. He sits down as well. 

“Yeah, like when people are talking about something they don’t want others to know they’re talking about,” Charlie says, almost distractedly.

Castiel huffs, “I _know_ what an encrypted message is. But why would there be anything like that floating around about Pamela Barnes?” 

“Because Pamela Barnes didn’t exist until the day _after_ Dean got arrested.” Charlie gives one final key-tap and then sits back in her chair, arms across her chest as she smiles smugly at the right-side monitor. Squinting, Castiel leans in, eyes skimming over the information on the screen. “The media was trying to spin it as her being some underdog defense attorney with no claim to fame until Dean decided to hire her. But here’s the thing: Dean didn’t put in a request for a lawyer. He turned himself in, right?”

“At the very least the law requires a public attorney to be assigned if a suspect can’t afford a lawyer.”

“Very true, _but_ ,” Charlie turns to face Castiel, her features lit up with excitement. “Pamela isn’t a lawyer.”

Castiel blinks. “What.” 

“All of her degrees and mumbo jumbo are fabricated! Pamela Barnes might not even be her real name. I’m serious, she literally _did not exist_ until she showed up at the jail and said she’d be representing Dean.” Charlie looks prim. “And then the day after she picked him up, she put out the whole ‘put your name in a hat’ bid. The most she’s ever said in a court of law is ‘my client pleads no contest’. Which is neither an admission of guilt _nor_ innocence, by the way.” 

“That’s because Dean is guilty of killing, but not for the reasons people assume.” Castiel leans back in his chair, frowning at the monitor. “What else do you have on Pamela?”

“Uh, other than the fact she’s probably not who she says she is? Not much. She popped up on the radar the day after Dean’s arrest and hasn’t exactly been keeping a low profile. She _seems_ to work nine-to-five at a law firm, ummmmm,” she clicks around a bit, “called _Heaven’s Door_. But! It gets hinkier. This law firm didn’t exist until Pamela did. She’s there Monday-through-Friday like clockwork, is never seen on the weekends, and there’s no record of her visiting Dean in jail outside of court dates.”

“Are you sure about this, Charlie?” Castiel asks, looking towards his friend.

She nods.

“What do the encrypted messages say?”

“That’s what I’m _not_ sure about. It’s a code I’ve never seen before.” She clicks around on a few things and then gestures at the screen again. “And I’ve seen, like, every code and cypher that exists on the web, my friend. This isn’t anything I’ve ever come across before.”

Castiel squints at the screen. The symbols staring back at him fuzz around the edges the more he tries to focus, so he gets up to grab his glasses from the living room. With his spectacles on his nose, he sits back down and tries to look over the code again. It’s _still_ fuzzy around the edges. Blinking a few times, Castiel pulls his glasses off his face and starts cleaning them idly with his shirt. “Why are the symbols vibrating like that?”

“Huh?” Charlie looks at him, then at the monitor. “Vibrating?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, returning his glasses to his nose. He frowns. “They’re… fuzzy around the edges. Like they’re moving, or buzzing.”

Charlie looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “They… aren’t doing that at all, Cas.” 

His ear pops and he winces, scrunching his shoulder up as a weird ringing starts echoing in his head. “Agh.”

“You ok?” Charlie asks, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Castiel works his jaw a few times, shaking his head, massaging his right temple idly. “Tinnitus.” He stands up. “Perhaps I need more sleep. I think I’m developing a migraine.”

“Ouch,” Charlie says with sympathy. “Take a bath with some lavender salts? I brought some, they’re on the bathroom counter.” 

Nodding, Castiel squeezes Charlie’s shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll do that, and if I don’t feel better, I think I’ll take a nap.”

“Sure thing,” Charlie says with a small smile.

When Castiel shuts himself in the bathroom, the ringing in his head slowly fades away. As he looks around, he notes that his vision seems fine. Picking up the bottle of salts and turning it to read the label, he’s mildly bewildered to see that the text is perfectly normal. Figuring the stress is getting to him, he draws a hot bath and strips before lowering the toilet seat and settling down. The new information on Pamela is surprising. He’s only talked to her the one time over the phone, and she had spoken to him with such familiarity… At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. But upon reflection, learning that she may not be who she says she is, he can’t help but wonder.

She clearly must have rigged the hat. Dean himself said that he requested Castiel. Did Pamela open up the bidding to try and draw him out, and when he didn’t take the bait, she took it into her own hands? But why would she do such a thing? Why would she go through the effort of having Castiel arrange to meet with Dean and then not continue contact? And, come to think of it, why hasn’t Dean mentioned her?

Does Pamela Barnes really not exist?

Castiel shakes his head and then stands so he can lower himself into the bathtub. His skin immediately flushes pink, steam rising from the waves, as he sinks down into the blessed heat while feeling his body’s stress start to physically melt away. Closing his eyes, he soaks a washcloth and then folds it neatly, putting it over his closed lids, resting his head back on the small pillow suction-cupped to the end of the tub. This feels good. When was the last time he took a bath? 

Settling in, he regulates his breathing. His body relaxes from his shoulders, to his biceps, his ribs and hands, waist, thighs, knees and ankles. A wave of relaxation washes over him for the first time in what feels like forever. Surrounded by the hot, aromatic water, he allows his mind to go blissfully blank.

Of course, that doesn’t last long. His mind wanders. He thinks of the almost-mugging in the alley, the man who’d been so angry with him - yet not angry enough to actually harm him. He thinks of the shadows that the camera didn’t capture, and how they arched away from the man’s body, insidious and powerful. The image in his mind’s eye distorts a little; his physical eyes feel hot. He squinches his eyelids a bit to try and get the feeling to go away. It doesn’t really help. This migraine probably won’t be so easy to beat.

The ache in his eyes is dull. In his head he sees great, big, shadowy wings burnt into the ground, charred and blackened from battle and death. At the center of them he sees-

Gasping, Castiel jerks out of his stupor. Water, cold water, sloshes around him and spills out of the bathtub. The washcloth falls from his eyes and the ringing in his ears subsides enough for him to hear Charlie knocking on the door, calling out to him from the other side - but her words sound muffled, like she’s trying to talk through a brick wall instead of a flimsy door. His eyes open and he could swear he sees white-hot fire escaping from his own lashes- he lifts his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, his breath coming out in stuttered gasps. 

“Cas? Cas! Hey! Are you alive!?”

Finally able to open his eyes without feeling like they’re going to burn out of his skull, Castiel looks around the bathroom. Nothing is out of order, except for the fact that his steaming-hot water is now tepid. Shifting and reaching for his towel, he pulls it off the rack and mops at his face, his ears registering Charlie’s slightly alarmed voice.

“Cas if you don’t answer me I’m gonna kick down this door! Don’t think I can’t!”

“I’m fine,” Castiel says. His voice comes out parched, like fire scorched his esophagus. He clears his throat and tries again, louder, “I’m fine, Charlie. I must have fallen asleep.”

“Jiminy Christmas,” Charlie’s voice is relieved. “You’ve been in there for over an hour.” 

“That’s impossible,” Castiel murmurs to himself.

“What?” 

“Nothing- What time is it?” 

“‘Bout three.” 

“I’m starving,” Castiel says loud enough for Charlie to hear, going for distraction so Charlie doesn’t worry too much about the fact he may or may not have almost drowned in the bathtub. “Do you want to go grab lunch?”

“Hells yeah, does Benny still make gumbo?” 

He chuckles as he stands, drying off his legs and feet before getting out of the tub and stepping onto the mat. He pulls the plug, and then starts to dry off the rest of his body. “He does. He’ll be happy to see you.”

“Great! I’ll go put on a bra.” 

Castiel, for a moment, avoids looking at the mirror. As normal as he feels now, there’s still a lingering ghost sensation of his eyes… burning. On fire. Once he’s sufficiently dry he wraps the towel around his waist and then slowly lifts his gaze to the mirror. Nothing is out of order. He still looks the same, if not a bit more unrested than usual. His eyes are still blue, skin still tan, hair still messy, beard still thick. There is no fire coming out of his eyes, there are no broken and battered wings protruding from his back-

Wait.

He blinks a few times, frowning at his reflection.

“Let’s go!” Charlie yells, knocking on the door again. “I’m a week out from my period and I would like to be wooed by Benny’s Southern charm and delicious Cajun food!”

Castiel looks at the door, and then looks at his reflection again.

He’s just him.

He’s alright. Perhaps he should go to the doctor about getting migraine medication… but he’s fine.

“Yes, Charlie. I’ll get dressed and we’ll go.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never read the bible; all research is done via google and some sites i forgot to save the links to; just remember this is a work of fiction thanks!

“This is Sam Wesson.” 

“Sam. This is Castiel Novak. I’m an investigative journalist for-”

“ _H.E.L.L._ ” Sam interrupts. His voice sounds oddly relieved. “I’ve been waiting for your call.” 

Castiel’s phone is resting on the kitchen table between himself and Charlie, the call on speaker. He frowns down at the device in confusion, tilting his head. “You have?”

“It’s not a secret that you’re the one interviewing Dean,” Sam says. “I was alerted the instant Dean was granted visits.”

Blinking rapidly, Castiel and Charlie exchange glances. Licking his lips, Castiel scoots forward slightly in his seat, lacing his fingers together atop the table. “Why have you been waiting for my call?” 

“What has Dean told you?” 

Disoriented at losing control of the conversation, Castiel twiddles his thumbs. These Winchesters are eerily good at putting him off his game, so to speak. “Quite a bit.” He shifts his shoulders, a slight itch irritating the skin of his shoulder blades. “I’ve also been doing my own research in correlation to what he’s been telling me.”

“Research,” Sam huffs out a humorless chuckle, then seemingly collects himself. “How long does Dean have?”

“You don’t know the day of execution?” Castiel asks, surprised. 

“Even if I knew, I probably wouldn’t pay it any mind,” Sam says casually. “Death isn’t permanent. It’s just a date.”

Castiel and Charlie exchange glances again, this time with their mouths open and eyes wide. Scrubbing a hand over his mouth and scratching at his beard, Castiel looks down at his phone. Sam, it turns out, is just as cryptic as Dean when it comes to answering questions. It’s rather frustrating, but Castiel resolves to not let it get to him as he massages his forehead with two fingers. 

“Why have you been absent from the proceedings?” Castiel asks. “You’re leading a normal life while your brother waits to die.” 

“This go around it’s his turn. Next time it’ll probably be me. Or you. Who knows?” 

Castiel can’t help but let out a frustrated noise. 

“You’re not asking the right questions, Cas.” 

That makes Castiel pause in running his hands through his hair, his elbows digging into the table. Charlie has a hand over her mouth to keep herself quiet, her gaze unwavering from the phone.

Sam’s voice is softer the next time he speaks, “You’ll save him. You were always meant to.” 

The phone disconnects. 

Castiel tries calling the number back, but an automated voice tells him that the number is no longer in service. Letting out a frustrated growl, he stands, tempted to trash everything on the table, but thinking better of it and instead turning on his heel, slamming his closed fists against the wall. Leaning forward he presses his forehead to the wall between his hands, trying to control his breathing. His eyes burn. His ears ache. 

“Cas?”

Charlie’s hand is hesitant where it rests on his shoulder. That itching sensation starts up again; he shrugs his shoulders, rolling them, then turns around so he can look at Charlie. 

“What did we learn?” Castiel asks. It’s the same question he asks himself every time he does an interview. 

“That Sam is just as cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs as Dean?” Charlie gives a grimacing smile. 

Pressing his hands over his eyes, Castiel wings out his elbows and tips his head back, stretching his spine. “Did you find anything else on the man from the surveillance video?” 

“Zilch.” Charlie sighs, walking back towards the table to flop down into her chair. “No facial recognition anywhere.”

“Is that reliable?” Castiel asks, dropping his hands and moving back towards the table as well. 

“It picked _you_ up,” Charlie says, reaching for the computer mouse. She clicks around on a few things and then turns the monitor towards Castiel, showing him a strange collage of every time he’s been spotted on any camera. The bank, the grocery store, gas stations, clubs… Her system is thorough. If this man had been anywhere, she would have found him.

It seems as though he only existed in that alley for that specific moment in time. 

At that, he’d basically apparated in and out of the alley. 

Exhaling slowly, Castiel does his best to release the tension in his body. “Where does all of this leave us?” 

Charlie chews her lower lip, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t know. I feel like we just accidentally opened Pandora’s box. Instead of getting answers we’re getting more questions.” 

“I see Dean tomorrow,” Castiel says, cracking his neck to either side. Something settles in the pit of his gut, his eyes starting to burn again. “I think I know the right questions to ask, now.” 

\--

“You ok?” Dean asks once he’s settled. His voice is gruffer than usual today, brows knit, and it could be perhaps because he didn’t sleep well, or it might even be an actual concern for Castiel.

Castiel, whose eyes today are red and puffy and irritated no matter how many allergy pills he takes or eye drops he soaks into them. “Fine, thank you.” He replies almost curtly. He’d thought all night about how to steer today’s interview. The red light on his recorder blinks plaintively, a visual metronome for every second that passes in the presence of Dean Winchester. Folding his hands on the table, he meets Dean’s eyes as best as possible, but before he can speak he winces at a sudden onslaught of brightness, reaching up to cover his eyes. “Pardon me.” He says under his palm. He rubs his eyes a few times, then moves his hand away to regard Dean once more.

So _bright_. It’s like Dean is radiating the light of a thousand suns. Castiel can’t distinguish his handsome features, details washed out by the brightness coming from him. Golden beauty, Dean’s shining like a beacon. Castiel reaches shaky fingers into the pocket of his shirt, pulling out his prescription sunglasses, unfolding them fretfully before putting them on his face. It only helps a little bit. He turns his head, focuses on the wall closest to them- not bright. He looks at the door- not bright. He looks up at the light itself, hanging from an industrial fixture on the ceiling- also not bright. 

Lowering his chin, he regards Dean for half a second before he needs to close his eyes against the onslaught. A little groan leaves his lips without permission. He puts his elbows on the table, slides his fingers into his hair so his palms are on his forehead, and then clenches his jaw a few times before speaking. 

“I spoke to Sam.” Silence meets his statement, so he continues, staring at the table through the lenses of his sunglasses. “Is poor communication a family trait?” 

Dean snorts. “Could say that. How’s he doin’?” He’s unaffected by Castiel’s unusual display.

“Vastly unbothered by your upcoming injection,” Castiel replies honestly. 

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice turns thoughtful. “Does get kinda old after a while, huh?”

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice is cut with frustration. “Tell me what’s going on. Tell me why Pamela doesn’t exist-” he lifts his head to glare at Dean through his sunglasses, but mostly he ends up squinting because of the light radiating off of the other man. “Tell me why you hunt ghosts and monsters and ended up in maximum security prison and are just waiting to die, like you’re going to just wake up somewhere else.” 

“‘Cause that’s the long and short of it, Cas,” Dean says, his voice almost soft. “This ain’t my first rodeo. Ain’t gonna be my last.” Castiel’s vision is so whited out, he barely sees Dean shift slightly forward in his seat. “Yours either, angel.” 

Grunting in exasperation and pain, Castiel takes off his sunglasses, the frames clattering on the table as he puts his hot palms over his hot eyes. 

“I didn’t know it’d be like this for you, though,” Dean continues, his voice gentle. “M’sorry. For what it’s worth, I thought it’d be different this time.” The chains rattle with movement, and there’s suddenly a blinding _want_ blooming inside Castiel; he wants Dean to touch him, to comfort him, to take the pain away. 

He wants Dean.

_He wants Dean._

Standing up, Castiel swipes his sunglasses off of the table and puts them back on his face, turning his back towards Dean. “I have a friend,” he says, feeling marginally more calm now that he’s not facing the other man. He folds his arms tightly over his chest, uncaring of his unprofessional and closed off body language. His skull feels like it’s splitting open from the inside, his shoulders are stiff and achy, and he has to keep his eyes closed. Dean’s light is starting to fill the room. “She’s going to help me save you.”

“Save me?” Dean sounds mildly confused. 

“You don’t belong in prison, Dean. Neither do you belong on death row.” 

“Cas,” the chains rattle, “not that I don’t appreciate your efforts, but this is typically how it goes. Winchesters get themselves outta messes, y’know? You don’t gotta worry about me. It’ll all work out in the end.” 

Castiel whirls, shouting, “Quit treating yourself like you’re expendable!” 

The light above the table pops and shatters, the shards of the bulb raining down over where Dean’s hands are cuffed to the D-ring. The room plunges into darkness but Dean shines so bright, Castiel can see him clearly. The expression the other man wears is of pure wonder, awe, and the way his lips are curled, revealing his teeth…

Is that… adoration?

Castiel’s belly swoops. 

Victor opens the door, barking orders into the hallway. Castiel stays where he’s standing, wearing sunglasses in a dark room and not giving a single shit, his arms still folded over his chest as someone comes in with a hand broom and dustpan to clean up the mess. Someone else quickly replaces the fixture and the bulb, Victor and Castiel exchange a glance and a nod, and then Dean and Castiel are left alone again. 

“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice still gentle, inviting. Light bursts from his green eyes, blossoms from his chest. “You’ve never been able to do that before.” Castiel’s eyes narrow. Dean points up to the brand new light fixture. “The game’s changing.”

“You don’t know me,” Castiel’s hackles raise. Dean is speaking familiarly of him. Like they’ve known each other before this. “For all you know that’s my favorite parlor trick.” 

Dean sends him an unamused look. “Hear me out.” 

“Are you going to speak in riddles? Metaphors?” Castiel asks through his teeth. He has to turn his gaze away, Dean glowing too brightly again. 

“I’m gonna speak as plainly as I can without anyone else catchin’ on,” Dean says. Castiel’s eyes bounce around the room to the posted cameras, before he shuffles forward and sits in the chair opposite Dean once more, the metal legs scraping on the concrete floor. Dean leans forward and his light is not only bright, but it’s warm now, and Castiel automatically leans into it. “You and Charlie have to break the code.” Castiel opens his mouth to ask how on Earth Dean knows Charlie’s name, but Dean holds up a hand to halt his words. “Break the code and then we all can get out of here in one piece. If she’s here and if Pamela’s here I think things are in our favor. We can win this, and God can suck a dick.”

Castiel’s brows scrunch in confusion. The buzzer rings and their hour is up, Victor opening the door and walking to the table to start releasing Dean from his seat. Dean flashes Castiel a smile, Castiel’s heart skips a beat, and then Castiel is left alone in the room.

It’s no longer bright.

He removes his sunglasses, staring up at the new light and fixture. 

Break the code.

He jolts a little, sitting straight. The encrypted message Charlie said she couldn’t decipher- that _has_ to be what Dean is talking about. Standing up, Castiel gathers everything, pocketing his recorder. His eyes throb. His shoulders ache.

Something big is about to happen.

Going home is uneventful until Castiel is approaching his apartment complex. The same man from the alley is lingering outside, still dressed in period clothing, coal hair coiffed perfectly and blue eyes blazing into everyone and anyone that walks by. Castiel slows his gait as he approaches, but the man notices him as soon as Castiel is within range. The man pushes away from the wall he’d been leaning against and strides purposefully towards Castiel, bottled righteous fury rolling off of him in waves. 

Castiel’s eyes twinge. 

The man stops in front of Castiel. Comparatively, the man is slender, not really that physically imposing. But Castiel remembers well the way the shadows had played around him, so he stands guard. The man peers curiously at Castiel’s sunglasses, and then sneers. 

“You’ve always tried so hard to denounce your true self,” the man says.

“Who are you?” Castiel replies.

A muscle jumps in the man’s jaw. “I am the one trying to set you on the right path.” 

“And which path is that?” Castiel asks, withdrawing his hands from his pockets, forcing his fingers to relax as his hands hang by his sides. 

“The one that has nothing to do with the Winchesters and everything to do with God’s plan.” 

It could be a coincidence that God has been brought up twice in one day by people Castiel would normally pass off as psychos. Something tells him that he should stop believing in coincidences. 

“You were a _good_ soldier, Castiel. A great leader. Our disappointment runs deep, but we have been trying to correct your actions.” The man looks Castiel up and down. “And yet every time you only manage to fall further. Your attachment to that _human_ has caused one too many problems. There’s only so many times we can hit the reset button.” 

Massively confused, but also knowing that the man is talking about Dean, Castiel frowns. “I don’t understand.” 

“You are _lost_ , Castiel!” The man suddenly yells. The street light they’re standing next to bursts, much like the light that burst in the prison, the shards of glass catching the rainbows of the sun as they sprinkle around Castiel, caught in his hair, dusting his shoulders. “Heaven is broken because of _you_!” Castiel takes a step back to steady himself, the ground beneath his feet rumbling with the man’s rage. The man matches his step. Castiel’s eyes feel like they’re about to burn out of his skull. “The obvious answer is to just take you out of the equation.”

When the man lifts his palm, Castiel takes off his sunglasses, tossing them to the side. They arc through the air. Castiel lifts his own hand towards the man. Another street light explodes. The ground trembles beneath their feet. Wind blows and Castiel feels the bones in his shoulders shifting and breaking, mutating and distorting. From the man’s hand a blue-white light emits, but Castiel’s gathers faster. By the time his sunglasses hit the ground he hits the man square in the chest with a beam of light, knocking him off his feet and sending him sprawling into a cluster of garbage cans. 

Breathing heavily, Castiel blinks down at his hand. His vision is clear. His shoulders don’t hurt. There’s no ringing in his ears. 

The man gets up and charges Castiel, swinging with his fist. Castiel has never been in a fight before in his life, but he lifts an arm to block the punch, feet dancing to parry. The man’s fists hit like iron, but Castiel blocks like steel, something like instinct guiding his hands to start returning the blows. The sidewalk cracks beneath their feet. More lights burst. When the man lands a punch on Castiel’s jaw it sends a wave of energy out into the street, overturning a car. When Castiel kicks him square in the chest and sends him into a building, the bricks break and crumble around him, burying him in plaster. Staring in shock, Castiel looks at his fists, looks at the people fleeing from the scene, and then takes a step back when the man stands from the rubble, nary a hair out of place on his handsome head. 

“You will regret all of your trespasses, Castiel,” the man says, his voice booming. His eyes glow, the shadows behind him morphing once again into the image of wings. 

In a blink, the man is gone.

The block is a wreck. Castiel blinks again, and everything is restored to normal.

He runs. 

He sprints up the stairs to his apartment, knowing his feet will carry him faster than the elevator. Once inside he sees Charlie asleep at the kitchen table, her cheek on an open book, hair in disarray and some drool dribbling out of the corner of her mouth.

“Charlie!” Castiel barks.

“Good morning America!” Charlie yelps, waking from her slumber and looking around in confusion. Castiel starts pacing. Charlie wipes a hand over her face, yawns, and then wakes up enough to notice his agitated state. “What happened? Didn’t you just go see Dean?”

Dean. Castiel presses his hands over his eyes, still pacing. “Yes. Yes, I went and saw Dean, but I- the man from the alleyway. He was waiting for me, just now.”

“What?” Charlie shrieks. She wakes up her computer, starting to type furiously. “What happened?” 

“We fought,” Castiel says. 

“Like…?”

“Like, literally fought. With our fists. And feet. And I-” Castiel rubs his face furiously. “He knows me. And he knows about Dean and Sam. Dean talked about God today and this guy also mentioned God and I know better than to think it’s a coincidence, but I don’t understand how they correlate-”

“Holy superheroes, Batman,” Charlie breathes, catching Castiel’s attention. She’s staring at her monitor.

Castiel walks over to peer over her shoulder, feeling his gut drop as he watches the surveillance feed Charlie hacked into. There’s the man, and there’s Castiel, and they really _are_ fighting, exchanging blows- the camera fizzes slightly and then refocuses, both Castiel’s and the stranger’s eyes _glowing_. When the man stands from the rubble the camera has a clear view of the massive wings spread behind him, and then in the next instant, he’s gone.

“Oh my God,” Charlie says. “Oh my God. Oh my God, Cas, what- what did you-?”

Castiel reaches up, trying to contort and stretch his arms so he can feel the back of his shirt. There are no tears or rips. He touches his eyes and for the first time all day they feel relatively normal, if not a little sore, like how eyes tend to get tired after crying. Frozen in place, Charlie and Castiel stare at the still image of Castiel’s hand out in front of him, an energy blast in his palm, the split second before he blasted the man away, great shadows arcing out from his back. 

“Dean says we need to crack the encrypted message,” Castiel finally says, his voice low. 

“Uh huh,” Charlie replies. “So we’re not gonna talk about you turning into Iron Man? Or the fact that you totally kicked ass?”

“No,” Castiel says.

“Okey doke,” Charlie says, moving like molasses to exit out of the surveillance video and open up the screen that holds the encrypted message.

They don’t say anything for the rest of the night.

\--

Castiel dreams of Dean, which is nothing new. 

He dreams of kissing him, touching him, holding him, which is nothing new. 

He dreams of fine lines around his eyes, flecks of gold in the irises, softness on his lower tummy. That’s new.

He dreams of Dean dying, of Dean being resurrected, which is nothing new. 

He dreams of his own death, he dreams of wings burning, he dreams of catapulting through time and space and black goo. That’s new. 

He dreams of being in the back seat of a beast of a car, riding Dean until they’re both spent and exhausted. He dreams of a memory foam mattress and watching Dean sink into it as Castiel pounds into him, shaping the bed into something new, something _them_.

He dreams of Sam, soft smiles and joking laughter. That’s new. 

He dreams of a boy with golden eyes and a golden heart. That’s new.

When he wakes up it’s not with a start. He wakes up slowly, easily, calmly, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom as his heartbeat slows. That’s new.

He has this feeling of… nostalgia, deep within him, a pleasant acid reflux that creeps up his throat and spills dopamines into every crevice of his head. 

Bizarre. He’s never felt that sort of joy before. 

As he looks around his bedroom, there’s a moment of disorientation. Is this his bedroom? It feels… off. He always has the curtains drawn over the windows, keeps it rather sparse, but it feels… wrong. Like there’s something missing by the door, like the books he has should be somewhere other than the shelves he’s hammered into the walls. 

It’s all wrong.

The joy leaves him as if sucked out by a vacuum. He feels sad, inexplicably so. Morose. He gets up out of bed, pulls on clothes that feel ten sorts of wrong on his body, even though it’s the same jeans and t-shirts he’s worn in his spare time since… well, forever.

He thinks. 

Forever?

Charlie is at the table looking half dead. Castiel shuffles by to start making coffee in the percolator, opening the fridge to rummage around. It’s a simple breakfast of toasted bread with almond butter, sliced apples, and chunks of brie cheese. He doesn’t have the energy to make anything and Charlie doesn’t have the energy to complain. They pick at their food, tired for different reasons, before Charlie finally lets out an annoyed breath. Castiel has the odd longing for a bigger kitchen. He's never felt that need before.

“I can’t crack the code.”

Castiel frowns softly, easily brought out of his thoughts. “Why?” 

“Firstly, because it doesn’t make sense,” she says, “and secondly, because what little bits I _could_ translate… don’t make sense.” 

“Right,” Castiel says dryly. 

“What do you know about the bible?” she asks.

Smearing a hand over his face and into his hair, Castiel shrugs. “Enough.”

“Like- did you go to church, did you study it in college… how’d you learn? And how much did you learn?” 

Castiel tries to think back to before university, but… his memories fuzz. He can’t remember anything pre-college. Not his family, not his friends or where he lived. Thinking that he probably just needs more (restful) sleep, he shrugs. “I believe I read it before college, but I know I took some classes on religious theory.” 

“Ok. So you know that, like, most of the languages of early man or whatever are dead, and everything has just sort of evolved. The first drafts of the bible are in Greek and-or-Hebrew depending on what text you’re looking at, but we can suspect that the oral story got a little flubbed from one mouth to another until some genius decided to write it down. Right?”

“Charlie,” Castiel says tiredly. The percolator isn’t done making the coffee, yet. “I can’t do intellectual discussion right now.”

She ignores him. “This encrypted message translates into Biblical Hebrew but, like, badly. Which leads me to believe that the Hebrew translation is _another_ translation from a different dead language. But as far as my computers and my endless reading tells me… there are no dead languages like what I’ve found.” 

Rubbing his temples, Castiel stands so he can be in front of the percolator when the light turns from red to green. “You’re saying it translates into a pre-biblical language?”

“Yeah. But! I did research on those and have ruled out literally everything. So I’m stuck. I’ve e-mailed a few different religious scholars at a few universities posing as a curious student but if any of it gets flagged, we’re in huge trouble.” 

“Is it pre-biblical or just a language that was around for a short amount of time and then died out?” Castiel considers out loud. The percolator clicks. He pulls down two mugs. He notes that it’s almost eight in the morning- they’ve slept in today, by their manic standards. Filling both their cups and bringing them to the table, Charlie doesn’t even complain as she drinks hers black. “Lots of languages in the world existed for a blip on the timeline before dying out, either because they’d been merged with other cultures or just because the people didn’t last long. Lots of undocumented languages exist in the world, as well.”

“Ok, but when you think about undocumented languages, you think of like… rural tribes and nations, right? Or even old people speaking a dying dialect?” She takes a deep drink of coffee. “I did a lot of digging before I passed out and I’m pretty sure in my dreams I bartered for two goats and a carrot from a Peruvian farmer. I don’t even speak Chamicuro. Which is a nearly extinct language, by the way.” 

Castiel snorts.

“Anyway, the closest hit I got was a language called Enochian. Now… for some reason, Google is _super_ unreliable when it comes to information on this language. It might even be considered a hoax language because some dude and, like, a psychic who claimed he could talk to angels wrote a book about it. It’s hugely popular in the occult world, though. Those professors I e-mailed will probably tell me I’m an idiot and turn me away, but it’s worth a shot. Because even if these dudes created it… what if there’s some truth to it?”

“Angels,” Castiel says flatly. 

“Angels,” Charlie says sagely. 

Falling quiet, Castiel contemplates. Pinching the bridge of his nose and massaging, he sighs. “Tell me about Enochian.” 

“Basically, these dudes were saying that y’know, before humans, when God was creating stuff, he communicated with his angels in Enochian. When Adam left Paradise apparently he was the one who invented the old _old_ Hebrew language. Anyway, ‘Angelical’ language was basically a huge secret from the humans because God and his buddies didn’t want the humans to actually know how to interact with them outside of all the prayer hoopla. Like, literally, this dude - ummm, Kelley I think - was like, the sole contributor for the Enochian language and alphabet. He had a buddy who was just as cuckoo and together they were trying to unlock magical worlds or something.” She blows out a sigh, scratching at her jaw. “I was half asleep at this point but I think I still have the web pages pulled up.”

Leaning forward, Castiel watches her boot up her laptop. Sure enough, multiple tabs are open on dozens of different articles and references. Shifting in his seat, Castiel downs half of his coffee before reading through things. His eyes narrow, and narrow, and narrow further as he reads along, brow furrowing at the absolute lunacy of what he’s reading. 

“It’s a cult,” he surmises.

“You’d think,” Charlie says. “But… aren’t all religions a cult of some kind?” 

Nodding, Castiel sighs. “Yes.” Clicking on a different article, he scans a few sentences and then rolls his eyes. “A linguist has basically debunked this language as a farce. It’s not consistent enough to be considered an actual language to be communicable. It’s similar to English enough that people _can_ converse but it can also be deduced that these men just… came up with a secret language, like a pair of toddlers. Also," he pulls up a different web page. "Spells? Magic?" He sends his friend a dead look. 

“I mean- yeah,” Charlie lets out a little laugh. “But there are some tangible points to it, too. It’s kind of a gigantic mess, but- what I _have_ decoded has huge similarities to Enochian. Not one-hundred percent, because that would be too easy. But enough for us to try and translate. We don't have to believe it, Cas. We just have to read it."

Castiel stares at the screen for a few seconds, then pulls away. “Can you isolate the Enochian text?”

“Already done,” she says, tossing Castiel a finger-gun and a wink. “Hey, you look…? Better? Today?” 

“I feel a little better,” Castiel admits. “I’m just having strange dreams.” 

“Like what? Still about Dean?” 

“Dean and…” he chews the inside of his lip, unsure as to how much he should tell Charlie. But… she’s all he’s got, and if he doesn’t tell someone, he’ll go crazy. “It’s odd. Most of the dreams feel like memories that don’t belong to me, associated with flashes of moments and intense emotions.”

“Like deja vu?” 

“Somewhat,” Castiel nods, then looks around his apartment. “Every day, this apartment feels less and less like my home.” 

Charlie glances around as well. “Maybe you just need to move? When this whole Dean thing is over take a vacation?” 

“Charlie,” he looks at his best friend, eyes sad and heavy, “this ‘Dean thing’ will never be over.”

She searches his eyes for a second, clearly caught off guard by those words. Reaching out to awkwardly pat his shoulder, she tries to send him a reassuring smile. “It feels like that now, buddy, but it’ll be alright. And if it gets to be too much you know you can just… stop, right? You don’t owe Dean anything. Like, anything at all, you know?” 

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Castiel says. “But this won’t be over until it’s _actually_ over.” 

“What does that mean?”

Shaking his head, Castiel leans back against his chair. He puts an elbow on the table so he can put his palm over his eyes, slouching down. “I don’t know.” 

Truthfully, and existentially… what does _anything_ mean, anymore?

\--

After doing his own brushing up on this supposed Enochian language, Castiel tells Charlie to print out a test page of the code for him. His eyes had fuzzed out while looking at the screen, so maybe he just needs less screen time in general? It would explain his splitting migraines and his vision going hazy at strange times. He must have hit his threshold for being in front of digital screens. He should have bought those expensive blue light glasses he’d seen at the store a few weeks ago.

Charlie leaves for the day to head back to her place a few cities over to check on her apartment and gather her mail. This leaves Castiel alone with an Enochian printout, an empty apartment, and a dull ringing in his head. Sitting on his couch, he puts on his glasses and stares at the ceiling for a second, hoping to give his eyes some sort of recalibration before he looks at the page. 

He picks up the page.

The whole thing looks like it’s vibrating, even where it rests in his fingers. He squeezes his eyes shut, not feeling the paper moving at all. He opens his eyes again, watching in a strange fascination as the symbols vibrate and rearrange themselves all over the page. They leap and jump over one another, slotting into places and creating entirely new sentences. Focusing, the ringing in his ears starts to pick up little by little as he starts to absorb the lines. 

_The Fallen One… Raises the Righteous Man from the Hellfire Depths… To bring forth Heaven’s Strongest Warrior… To fulfill the End Times…_

A sharp pain cracks through Castiel’s jaw. He grimaces and moves a hand to brace under his chin, forcing himself to continue reading. This is completely different than the stupid language he’d been studying. Some of the symbols are similar, yes, but the way they ebb and flow is completely different from how some sixteenth century scholars tried to pin it down.

_...Once Armageddon has seized the Earth… The Prophecy Ends… and New Life Begins…_

Letting out a little pained noise, Castiel pulls his glasses off of his face and presses his palm to his brow, trying to massage away the pain. Squinting through his lashes, now, he continues reading through the white hot burning sensation starting to spread through him.

_Should the Righteous Man not fulfill The Prophecy… Another shall take His place… over and over again… until the End Times…_

Coughing, Castiel pulls the page away from his face. It feels like fire is licking at his eyelashes, but he presses on.

_The Guardian Angel of the Righteous Man shall never falter… and if He does… He shall live through every conceivable reality until He completes His Task…Even Death cannot save Him..._

“Fuck,” Castiel breathes out, standing up. His whole body is hot, like the clothes on his skin are close to igniting. He's reading the words on the paper but it sounds like they're being broadcasted directly into his brain.

_If The Guardian Angel alters reality… beyond comprehension… The New Order will Establish._

The paper catches on fire in Castiel’s hands, incinerating completely, the ashes falling onto his coffee table in a heap. He falls back onto his couch, the pain in his eyes receding and leaving him entirely winded, his chest heaving and fingers shaking. Staring at the ceiling, Castiel processes what he just read. A declaration of some sort? Instructions?

A warning? 

His cell phone rings.

Shooting up off of the couch, Castiel scrambles to the kitchen where it lays on the counter attached to the charging cord. An unknown number pops up on the screen, but instinct tells him to answer it. 

“Hello?” he answers, voice gruff and ragged. 

“Heya Castiel,” an unfamiliar voice greets. “My name’s Chuck. You got a second to chat?” 

“Who?” Castiel asks, straightening and running a hand through his hair.

“Well, without sounding pompous, I’m your dad. Well- everyone’s dad, really. I like people to call me Chuck, but you might know me as God-”

The line dies.

Castiel stares at his phone, brow furrowing. 

There’s a knock on his door.

Carefully, Castiel exits the kitchen. On his way to the front door he stops by the hallway table, pulling the glock out of it, controlling the trembling of his fingers. He checks to make sure it’s loaded. Holds it behind his back, then reaches for the handle of the door.

Swinging it open quickly, he raises his gun with deadly precision. Sam Winchester is on the other side of the door, incense burning at his feet, a gun in his hand pointed at Castiel’s forehead in turn. They stare each other down for a tense three seconds before Sam drops his gun first, letting out a sigh.

“Is Chuck here?”

“No,” Castiel answers, confused.

“Good,” Sam hides his gun in the back of his pants, bending to clear up what looks like a metal mixing bowl and a bunch of herbs and spices. Standing at his full height, he sends a warm smile down to Castiel. “Can I come in?”

Frozen, Castiel clenches his jaw and lowers his gun. “Who is Chuck? Why did he call me?” 

Sam bustles past Castiel. “God. He called because you’re here and you’re supposed to be dead. But he’s dead too. Then again, no one really _stays_ dead...” 

Castiel shuts the door before following Sam into his living room. “Why are _you_ here?” 

“It’s different every time,” Sam says. He rolls up Castiel’s floor rug neatly, leaning it against the wall of the living room. He pulls a can of red spray paint out of his bag, crouching to start coloring the wood floor. 

“ _What_ are you doing?” Castiel demands, nose scrunching up as the fumes hit them.

“Drawing a Devil’s trap,” Sam says simply. “We’ve been going through these altered realities for… man, maybe six years? Every time we’re dumped onto some different timeline with our memories wiped, starting over with no knowledge of each other or something keeping us from knowing each other. Putting either myself or Dean in prison is usually how they keep us apart, but you’re always a wildcard. We actually haven’t seen you at all. Probably because you were in the Empty.” 

“ _Sam_ ,” Castiel raises his gun again, pointing it at the man’s head. “I’m _not_ in the mood for vague explanations.”

Raising his hands, Sam stands and takes a step away from what looks like a weird satanic drawing on the floor. He eyes Castiel’s gun cautiously. “You’ve never had one of those before.” 

Castiel cocks the gun.

“Right-” Sam panics a little. “Ok. I’ll tell you everything, Cas, but you gotta put the gun away. And… you gotta trust me, ok? If Chuck called you that means the God squad is close to finding you, and we have to see if we can break the timeline before they do.” 

Castiel doesn’t lower the gun. “ **Talk.** ”

Collecting himself, Sam squares his shoulders and looks at Castiel straight-on, locking their gazes. “This life isn’t real, Cas. None of it is real. It’s an accelerated timeline. Can you remember your childhood?”

Castiel’s gut swoops. He was literally just contemplating that yesterday, just wondering why he has no true images of his parents or any memories of anything before he started in college. And even his university memories are a jumbled flashback reel with no specific moments jumping out at him. It’s like the clearest memories he has are from the day…

From the day he woke up from a nap to a call from Pamela Barnes telling him that Dean Winchester wanted to meet him.

Nearly dropping the gun, Castiel turns to sink into the couch, his expression slack as he stares through Sam rather than at him. Sam quickly kneels, taking the gun from Castiel’s loose grip and putting it on the coffee table, settling between Castiel’s legs and reaching up to grip his shoulders tightly.

“Cas, I’m really sorry, but we have to do all of the catching up really quickly. This is the farthest we’ve ever gone _with you_ and if we can break the timeline we can get back to _our_ reality.” 

Swallowing to try and wet his dry throat, Castiel looks down at Sam, that vague familiar feeling cascading through him as he looks into those pretty hazel green eyes. This is familiar. Sam is familiar. This is safe. He… He has the same sensation with Sam as he does Dean. 

“Sam,” Castiel croaks.

“We fucked up,” Sam says, squeezing Castiel’s shoulders. “We all did. But this is it, Cas. Can you wait for a full explanation until we’re done?”

“Done with _what_?” Castiel presses. That exhaustion is threatening to overtake him again. 

“Look, quickest way I can describe it is that we’re getting out of this life,” Sam shakes his shoulders gently, scooting closer. “You, me, and Dean.” 

Overwhelmed by a myriad of thoughts and emotions, Castiel takes a few deep breaths before reaching up and grabbing Sam’s wrists. He doesn’t know why, but that feels right. It grounds him. 

“Tell me what to do.” 

“Cas?” 

Jolting upright, Castiel’s heart leaps up into his throat, threatening to suffocate him. Looking around wildly, eyes wide and fingers gripping the cushions of the couch, he’s shocked to see no sign of Sam. No Sam, no graffiti on the floor- he pats around and then looks at the coffee table. No gun. No mixing bowl with strange, fragrant ingredients. Turning, he sees Charlie hedging into the living room looking entirely concerned and maybe even a little frightened.

“Charlie?” Castiel croaks.

“You were having a… nightmare?” she guesses, stepping closer once it seems like Castiel has his bearings. “Are you alright? That was super freaky. Your eyes were all rolled back and you were twitching.” 

Heaving a sigh, Castiel buries his face in his hands. His shoulders are heavy from where Sam’s palms squeezed him, comforted him. His eyes are sore from… crying? No. From _reading_. 

Everything had felt so real. 

He reaches for the Enochian printout abandoned on the table. The letters don’t vibrate, no booming, Heavenly voice ricochets through his brain. 

Sam’s touch had been _real_. 

The danger had been iminent. 

Standing up on shaky legs, Castiel clenches his fists at his sides before an eerie sense of calm filters through his entire system. 

“I need to go see Dean.”


	7. Chapter 7

“ _Gooooood morning sunshiiiiiine~_ ” Dean greets as he enters the room. When his eyes land on Castiel, hunched in his chair, elbows on the table and fingers buried in his hair, his tune changes. “Shit man, you ok?” 

“Dean,” Castiel says after the guard leaves. His voice breaks. 

The chains shift, Dean helpless and unable to comfort him. “Cas, what happened?” 

“I think… I think I’m going crazy,” he confesses, eyes shut tight. “These interviews with you have been pointless. I don’t have anything resembling a story. All of the research I’ve done on you doesn’t make sense. You and your brother dodge my questions and when he-” he sucks in a breath. Slowly, he wipes his hands down his face and then pulls his temples back with his fingers, looking at Dean through slitted eyelids. “Sam was in my _apartment_ and in a blink, he was gone.” 

Dean looks alarmed. “Sam was with you?” 

“He had a bowl,” Castiel pulls a hand away from his head to gesture with it, “with… some sort of herbs and a matchbook. He was only in my apartment for five minutes. Then… I woke up? And he was gone.” 

“Cas,” Dean leans forward as much as possible. “Did you communicate with Chuck? Or someone who said they were Chuck?” 

“Who is Chuck?” Castiel asks tiredly. “He called. Then the call cut off and Sam was at my door.” 

“Shit,” Dean slumps back in his chair. “This is an accelerated timeline. We’ve only been here for four months.” 

Burying his face in his hands, Castiel mumbles, “I need answers.” 

“Then let me ask _you_ a question,” Dean says earnestly. Castiel peeks through his fingers to see honesty and determination shining in Dean’s eyes. “Do you believe me? And all the stuff I’ve told you?”

“About the supernatural?” Castiel clarifies.

“Yeah.” 

“I…” he licks his lips, then nods. “I don’t want to, but I do.” 

“And you feel it, right?” Dean continues. “You know something’s off.” 

“Of course something’s off,” Castiel snaps, too tired to continue playing games. “I’ve been mugged in an alley, caught on camera with glowing eyes, seen a man disappear before my eyes, and have apparently been contacted by God.” 

“Back up,” Dean says, holding up a hand. “You were in a fight? With who?”

“I don’t know. A man who… whose shadow projected wings onto a wall.” 

“Yea high,” Dean puts a waves a hand near his temple, “real good lookin’, like he stepped out of the classy sixties?” 

Castiel frowns. “Yes.” 

“That’s Michael,” Dean says gravely, “and he’s an archangel.” He then mutters, “Why’s he always gotta wear dad to prom?”

Castiel blinks rapidly. “What.” 

“We don’t have a lot of time if the God squad is up your ass already,” Dean says. He licks his lips, then sits forward in his seat again, catching Castiel’s eye. “Do you trust me?”

“No,” Castiel says reflexively, narrowing his eyes. 

Dean narrows his pretty greens right back. 

Still glaring, Castiel asks, “Do I have a choice?”

“No.” Then: “You decoded the message, right?”

“Yes.” 

“Alright, well the cliffnotes is that I’m the Righteous Man and you’re the Guardian Angel.” Castiel opens his mouth to interject, but Dean cuts him off. “Look, we can’t get into semantics right now. God’s dead and when he tossed our asses something reset and Michael came back from where we threw _him_. Basically Michael is pissed off because we stopped the apocalypse, and then have stopped it every single time he tries to bring it back. So to keep us busy, he threw us into an alternate time loop. Only we keep getting outta those, too. It’s just been me n’ Sam breaking the cycle, ‘cause we got like… I dunno, a sixth sense to find each other. You, though? He keeps you _real_ far away from us. This time you’re-” Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth, looking fraught. “You’re _right here_ in front o’ me, Cas, and I ain’t letting you go. We’re gonna break this fucking Twilight Zone bullshit and you’re comin’ home with us. You got that?” 

Castiel frowns. “Why don’t I remember any of this?” 

“‘Cause Michael don’t want you to. Me n’ Sammy, we’re a pretty good team. But us an’ _you_?” Dean whistles. The chains rattle as he moves. “I know it sounds crazy Cas, but your subconscious is tryna tell you everything you need to know. Dreams and hallucinations and all sorts of shit you’d write off as crazy. I was tryna get you to remember without outright sayin’ anything ‘cause Michael is listening, man. I ain’t playin’ games anymore, ok? Sam _was_ in your apartment, Cas, then Michael interfered and sent him back to wherever. _Please_ , sweetheart, please tell me you got at least a sliver of faith in me. ‘Cause I ain’t leavin’ this timeline without you.” 

His heart thuds in his chest. His eyes heat up, brimming slightly with unshed tears. Dean’s speech is passionate, true from his heart, no games or trickery in his tone. Dean is _begging_ Castiel without a single ace up his sleeve, downright asking him to believe everything he’s saying. Looking across the table at Dean, at the man who’s haunted his dreams and his reality, Castiel flexes his fingers once before reaching out to gently slide them across Dean’s white knuckles where they lay on the table. 

The first touch is electric. It’s just the pads of Castiel’s fingers slipping over Dean’s soft, smooth skin, but then the heat starts spreading through him, a familiar warmth that his subconscious relates to lazy mornings and a dark room and soft sheets. 

“All the research I did?” Castiel asks.

“Basically the real deal,” Dean says, “with the timeline altered here and there. Each time we get thrown in a loop the base story stays the same but some of the details get tweaked. Usually, one of us dies and that signals the end of this world and the beginning of the next.”

“ _Dies_?” Castiel’s stunned.

“More or less,” Dean confirms. 

Castiel falls silent, absorbing the information. He doesn’t get long before Dean starts fidgeting again. 

“Cas, I mean it. M’not leavin’ without you again. All of us gotta break the cycle or else we’ll keep bouncing between different shitty realities until we _actually_ die.” 

“How do we do it?” Castiel asks, suddenly feeling hopeless. “You’re going to be executed soon.” 

This is where Dean smiles. “You get your mojo back.”

“Mojo?” Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, you know-” Dean puts his palm out and mimics a blast noise. “You fought Michael, right? You used your mojo. That’s your glowy eyes and stuff.”

“I’m having a hard time believing I’m an _angel_ ,” Castiel says flatly.

“You read the Enochian message,” Dean says simply. 

Castiel squints. “Yes.” He thinks for a moment, then says, “Or… it was read to me. By a voice in my head. Multiple voices.”

“Angel radio,” Dean is quick to say. “This is good, Cas! Look, I need you and Sam to get together again and do a spell. The quicker we all can get together, the quicker we can all get outta here _together_ and- heh- alive.” 

“You mentioned something about Charlie and Pamela being here, and that that’s important somehow,” Castiel recalls. “Are they… stuck in the loop as well?”

At this, Dean softens a little. A rueful smile passes his lips as he says, “No. They’re not. The Charlie and Pam… Hell, even Crowley, that we know in this world? They’re all ghosts. A creature comfort Michael conjures up to give us a sense of security and familiarity in this world. But their spirits are tied to us, not him, so they tend to flip the script and help us out a bit in any way they can.”

A bit of sadness fills Castiel. Ghosts helping them from beyond the grave. Whatever world they won’t return to, he won’t have a Charlie. He won’t have a lot of things, but as he searches Dean’s face, he suddenly realizes he’ll have everything to gain. “For the record,” Castiel leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest, “I still think you’re a psychopath.” 

Dean sends him a wolfish smile. “That’s good, coming from the universe’s most smitey angel.” 

The buzzer rings. 

The hours is up.

Castiel feels as though he has information… but he’s not quite sure what to do with it. 

Can he really believe everything Dean is telling him?

\--

Castiel gets into contact with Sam via e-mail. It’s easy for them to exchange photos and videos this way- or, rather, it’s easier for Sam to send Castiel sort of a how-to manual on the supernatural. It’s all still a little mind-boggling for him but Castiel figures, at this point, everything he has is on the line. His (fake?) job, his (fake?) life, his (wobbly?) sanity. He may as well follow these Winchesters because, firstly, it doesn’t seem like he has a choice, and secondly, what’s the worst that can happen?

Castiel reads up on things like wendigos and leviathans and rugarus and thinks… there’s probably a lot worse that can happen. 

Sam is _incredible_. He’s meticulously organized and seems to have knowledge at his fingertips and is rarely short of an answer. He explains that they’ve all (yes, that’s Sam, Dean, and Castiel) been living in a bunker for a few years that houses the world’s largest collection of lore on things related to supernatural events and beings. Every time their timeline resets Sam has to rely on the knowledge crammed into his head, once remembered, in order to set things straight. Dean also has a plethora of information locked away, but he’s usually the one behind bars or in trouble, Sam explains. 

It’s… sad, really, Castiel thinks. Even if he weren’t intertwined in the Winchester’s lives, being taken out of one dimension and plopped into another to start over until your brain suddenly remembers that this isn’t reality must be difficult. They go through the humdrum of whatever life they’ve been given until a dream or a memory resurfaces and kicks off exactly what they’re going through right now. Sam says that so far they haven’t been able to break the loop. They start remembering things from their real life, Michael interferes, and they get zapped to a different alternate universe.

He says repeatedly and insistently that this time is different because they have Castiel. 

Castiel isn’t so sure.

But the more he reads the information Sam gives him, both from research as well as personal anecdotes, he starts to feel an odd twist of anxiety in his gut. These dreams about Dean, he starts to realize, aren’t just dreams. Though Sam doesn’t say it out loud, there are subtle insinuations in his text about Castiel and Dean’s relationship. 

_Relationship_.

When Castiel stops going to work it’s as though his job just… disappears. No calls from Crowley, no e-mails from colleagues wondering where he’s gone. When he goes to the grocery store it’s almost like a video game that hasn’t finished loading. He can get food and other necessities, but the crowds around him don’t move very fast, and eventually he starts going to the self check-out because the cashiers don’t even _talk_. 

It’s eerie.

One day he doesn’t pay for his groceries, just to see. No one stops him.

Charlie never comes back, one day, when she leaves to go get coffee. 

The more he and Sam correspond the more the world around him stops making sense. Sam says it’s the magic of this fake world starting to shift and change in preparation to launch them into the next timeline. Castiel doesn’t like the sound of that at all. If this truly is the first time Sam and Dean have been able to get into contact with him in _six years_ of timeline jumps, he’s absolutely terrified of what will happen in the next six years if they can’t find him again. 

Castiel doesn’t leave his apartment. Sam tells him it’s ok, but Castiel feels an awful sense of dread. It’s almost time for his weekly visit to Dean. To distract himself, he reads up on everything Sam sends him, his brain absorbing it like a sponge, or… picking it up again, like riding a bike. 

He’s still unsure of his angel status. Always a critic.

\--

His dreams intensify. It’s like a levee breaks one night, all sorts of memories gripping him. He dreams of leading some sort of crusade; he dreams of flying through hellfire, the sensation of appendages he didn’t even know he had charring and burning as flames lick across his celestial being. He dreams of gripping a man - _Dean_ \- and raising him from perdition. He dreams of his handprint singed into flesh, the connection between man and warrior. He dreams of an insufferable smile, an annoying laugh; he dreams of pure terror mixed with relief mixed with a feeling he’s… never felt before. 

He dreams of the first time he hugged Dean. 

Castiel gasps awake. His phone is ringing on his night stand. He picks it up, curling over his knees and putting his free hand into his hair. “What.” 

“Hey,” Sam sounds concerned. “Sorry, it’s like three a.m. but something happened. Are you ok?” 

“Dreams,” Castiel croaks in reply. “Memories.” 

Sam’s quiet for a relatable moment, before continuing on. “This world is deteriorating fast. Did you draw all the devil’s traps?”

“Yes.”

“And the angel warding?”

“Yes, though after putting it up I’ve had a migraine for four days.”

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause it’s affecting you, too. Listen, if anyone knocks on your door, _don’t_ let them in, ok? It’ll be the God squad trying to bring you back. I had a visit from Michael just now that I almost didn’t get out of.”

“Sam,” Castiel says tiredly, shoulders slumping. “This is crazy. You’re crazy. _I’m_ crazy.”

“No,” Sam’s voice sounds oddly fond, “you’ve just… developed a bit of a personality since you’ve been in the loop.” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow.

“You’re doing that thing with your face,” Sam says. 

Rolling his eyes, he rubs his hand over his forehead and flops back onto his pillows. “I’m still unsure as to how I’m contributing to breaking the cycle. I haven’t _done_ anything.” 

“The fact that you’re aware is enough,” Sam says gently, but urgently. “And you fought _Michael_. The you from our world would have thought twice about that.” 

“The me from your world seems to have a better sense of himself,” Castiel says witheringly.

Sam quiets. “You think so?” 

Castiel quiets as well, then says unsurely, “Does he not?” 

“Well- yeah, in a broad sweep. But the you, now? Your senses are just fine. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to find Dean.” 

“You’re not going to go on a rant about starcrossed lovers?” Castiel grumbles.

“I don’t need to,” Sam says. Castiel can see the expression on his features, smug and satisfied, like he’s seen it a million times before. “Anyway- lock up.”

“Oh,” something sparks in Castiel’s sluggish brain, “I have my visit with Dean today.” 

“Perfect,” Sam says. “The world should be deteriorating enough that you can get him out.” 

“Of _prison_?” 

“We need him _with us_ ,” Sam urges. “The world is slipping away more every day, I know you’ve noticed.” 

Castiel thinks about the people slowing in time, the grocery store where the labels are disappearing off of boxes. “I have noticed.” 

“You should be able to just walk out of prison with Dean in tow. The only trouble could come from angels. Oh- who’s Dean’s guard when you visit?” 

“A man named Victor.”

“That’s good, he’s trustworthy.” 

“Another ghost?” 

“He’ll be slowed like every other figment on this plane, but even if he noticed you escaping with Dean, he’d let you.” 

He rubs the bridge of his nose firmly. “Everything looks like a video game that is losing its rendering.” 

“That’s because while this one is slipping away, Michael is making the new world to throw us into.” 

Castiel exhales slowly. Inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth. He does this a few times before he says, “What is my relationship with Dean?” 

Sam snorts. “Profound.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

“Things will fall into place once we all get out of here,” Sam says, though his voice is warm. “You and Dean will be fi-”

The call cuts off.

Castiel looks at his phone. His screen distorts, and then the device starts melting in his hand, dripping down his hands and wrists, sticky-hot. He makes a surprised noise and then flings himself out of bed, shaking his hand to dispel the melted goo, staring at the lump on his floor with utter bewilderment. 

This world is ending right in front of his eyes.

It’s time to see Dean. 

\--

It’s the first time Castiel bypasses security. They don’t even try to stop him as he strides confidently forward, and it’s a good thing he passes them, because today’s the day he has his gun in his pants and a knife tucked away in his blazer. He’s wearing navy slacks with the matching jacket and a black tie, but something seems… off. Like his outfit is incomplete. He can’t dwell on it too much, though, because there are much more important issues than his clothing, at the moment. 

He makes his way through the prison by memory alone. Victor is standing guard at the door when he reaches it.

Dean is already seated at the table, chained. He looks up when Castiel enters, a saucy grin on his features, his freckles brighter than ever. It doesn’t hurt to look at him, but Castiel’s eyes do sting a little, a sensation he can blink away. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Dean says appreciatively. 

“Sam says I need to get you out of here,” Castiel says.

Dean jangles the chains on his wrist, looking amused. “That’s cute, but how will you-”

The gunshot makes Dean flinch and yell in surprise, his body curling in on itself. Castiel tucks the gun back into the back of his pants, his own ears ringing slightly, before he moves towards Dean and starts yanking the broken chain free of the D-ring, the only thing that’s been keeping him safely out of Dean’s reach. His heart pounds, his ears clog with adrenaline, but this close to Dean… nothing happens. The man doesn’t try to grab him or pin him or do… anything. He lets Castiel get the chains free, smiles some sort of familiar, knowing smile, and then wraps the chains around his forearms to keep them out of the way. 

“Nice.” 

“I don’t suppose I could magically find the key to those?” Castiel gestures towards the cuffs.

“We’ll get ‘em off later. For now, we gotta jet.” 

They exit the room casually. Castiel had been sure that the gunshot would alert the guards, but Victor stands there with a secretive smile, staring straight ahead and not looking at the pair as they leave. They stay low, just in case, peeking around corners and following the maze of the prison.

“Gotta say,” Dean says, looking around the next corner, “never envisioned you with a gun. S’pretty hot.” 

“I hold records at the target range, it would be unwise for you to hit on me while I’m armed.”

Dean sucks in a breath through his teeth as they make their way down the next hallway, muttering, “Fuck, you’re hot.” 

“ _Focus_ ,” Castiel growls. 

For being the biggest baddest maximum security prison in the country, it’s very easy to get out. Castiel loops his arm through Dean’s, keeping him close as they jog across the grounds towards freedom. Again, no one tries to stop them or check on them. They make it all the way to the parking lot, ten feet away from Castiel’s car, when things go to Hell.

Or rather: Heaven.

Mighty flaps of beastly, invisible wings signal the arrival of Michael. He stands tall and proud in the parking lot, looking at Castiel and Dean as though they’re insects under a microscope. They freeze. Michael lets out a patronizing laugh. 

“To think, after all this time, you two have _finally_ found each other,” Michael coos, pressing his palms together in prayer and kissing the tips of his fingers. He looks at them with faux adoring eyes. “True love really does conquer time and space.” 

“Get lost, Feathers,” Dean snaps, “or we’ll level you.” 

“Level me?” Michael laughs, dropping his hands. “Dean, Dean, Dean. I kick your ass in every dimension. The only reason you idiots are still alive is because you’re my favorite playthings.” 

Irritation grips Castiel. “Are we alive because you want us alive, or are we alive because you’ve managed to keep me apart from the Winchesters all this time?”

Michael lets out a fake gasp, looking towards Castiel, “Has the Fallen Angel regained his memories?” He rolls his eyes. “You of all people should know the wretched ways of the Winchesters. They _use you_ , Brother. And you let them! They locked me in a cage, threw away the key and you _let them_.” 

“I am able to lead my life the way I choose,” Castiel says. 

“You are _NOT_ ,” Michael suddenly bellows, a gust of wind coming from him. His voice shakes the ground. He’s seething when he looks at Castiel. “You were made to serve God! Free will is an _illusion_ , Castiel. You do not have it! God has a plan and you will be persecuted for deviating from it!” 

“What plan prevents someone from finding happiness? Purpose?” Castiel throws back.

“Your _purpose_ is to serve God!” 

“God is gone and I would rather _die_ than live a life predestined!” The words come to him on instinct surprising even himself.

A breeze wafts through the pregnant silence filling the space between Castiel and Michael. Dean looks both uncomfortable and proud at the same time, whereas Michael looks ready to spontaneously combust.

“Then by these hands,” Michael says, lifting his hands palm-up in supplication, voice trembling, “you shall die.” 

He moves lightning quick. He comes between Castiel and Dean, pushing Dean out of the way and striking at Castiel during the momentary distraction. Dean flies. Castiel catches a fist in his gut. The breath leaves his lungs in a long whoosh, interrupted by Michael’s fist connecting with his jaw. Stumbling back, Castiel tries to get his feet evenly on the ground, his imbalance saving him when Michael aims a kick for his shin, but Castiel’s body swerves to the side on its own. The world tilts on its axis as he dodges another punch, unable to keep up with the flurry of Michael’s attacks. 

“Cas!” Dean yells. 

Castiel can’t see him. He’s too busy watching Michael’s fists and feet, waiting for them to come close enough to block. He can’t get his own hit in. Michael’s rage is palpable, the air thick with thunder and lightning. Soon Michael has him on the ground, hitting him so hard the pavement crumbles and snaps around him like autumn leaves. He finally manages to cross his arms in an X over his chest, tucking his chin down to try and protect himself. 

“FIGHT ME.” Michael roars. 

Obviously unable to reply, Castiel waits for Michael to pull back his next punch. In the slightest, split-second of an opening, he drives his knee upward, lodging it into Michael’s gut. The angel lets out a surprised noise, distracted enough for Castiel to get out from underneath him. His suit is torn, he’s covered in dust, and he can feel blood dripping down his hot skin, getting tacky in the collar of his shirt. Standing to the side, mildly horrified at the crater Michael pummeled him into, Castiel does a quick check for Dean. 

Dean, ten feet away, smirks at Castiel, his eyes conveying words that precious time would waste. His prison suit is unzipped to the waist, blood smeared over his freckled skin.

The next time Michael charges, Castiel gets behind him. He wraps his arms under Michael’s armpits and then hauls him upwards, displaying his entire front side to Dean. Michael yells and spits in fury, but Castiel suddenly has inhuman strength brimming and boiling through his body, something more than muscles straining under his skin as he holds Michael in place. 

“What are you-” Michael’s voice cuts off, realization taking over as he watches Dean slice his hand. “NO-!”

WIth a flash and a bang, Michael disappears in a gravity-pulling whoosh, Castiel stumbling until he falls to the ground. His head feels like it’s splitting down the middle, agonizing pain searing through his nervous system. He can’t even make a sound, his body curling in on itself like a spider that’s been stepped on, his fingers and toes twitching. 

“...Cas… Cas… Cas!”

Dean’s voice comes through the fog. Castiel opens his eyes to see the man above him and registers that he’s in Dean’s arms, the man shaking him slightly, one arm around his shoulders and his other hand passing soothingly and worriedly over Castiel’s face and head. Castiel blinks at him a few times, opening his mouth to say something- he coughs up blood, globs of it spilling onto Dean’s bare chest to blur the sigils carved into his skin. 

“Don’t worry, buddy, we’re gonna get you outta here,” Dean says, his voice firm but a fine tremor running through his frame. He stops petting Castiel, digging into his pocket to pull his cell phone out. “Do you have Sam’s number saved?” 

“Yes,” Castiel coughs, then hisses in pain, trying to roll away from Dean so he can cough up blood onto the pavement. He can’t hear anything over the rushing and ringing of his ears, can’t see anything other than the fire in his eyes. It feels like forever and no time at all for Dean to haul him up onto his feet, supporting nearly all of his weight. 

“We gotta get out of the open, man,” Dean says, shuffling them along. 

“What…” Castiel’s breath wheezes slightly. “What did you do…?” 

“A banishment. Stupid of me- I knew it was gonna do somethin’ to you, too, but I didn’t- fuck, I’m sorry, Cas.” 

“I’ll live,” Castiel tries to say sarcastically, but the facetiousness of his words plops onto the concrete in a gloopy crimson pile. 

“Just gotta stay with me til’ we can hole up, alright?” 

“Stop talking,” Castiel groans. His feet feel heavy as lead and he can’t feel anything between his waist and shoulder. Between one blink and the next they’re walking and then he’s being let down gently onto something soft and cushiony (a couch?), finally able to relax. Dean’s voice swims in and out of his head, but he’s in too much pain to understand anything specific. 

Then, a cool cloth.

Coolness all over his body. 

When he opens his eyes he stares up at the rafters of what’s probably a warehouse. It’s quiet, but not deathly so; he can sense someone else’s presence nearby. Sitting up slightly, the wash cloth drops from his forehead to his lap with a gross _plep_ , the material covered in clotted blood. He looks down at himself, taking stock of his injuries. He unbuttons his white shirt, surprised to not see a single bruise. He lifts a hand to his features, finding that he’s not swollen there, either. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Dean’s voice greets. 

“Quiet,” Castiel says reflexively. He still has a headache. 

“How are you feeling?” Sam’s voice comes, much softer and sweeter. 

Castiel squints, turning his head. Sam and Dean are seated in metal folding chairs at a card table, laptops and books in front of them. The warehouse is maybe five hundred square feet; a glorified storage unit, really. He’s on a couch, one of two, and there’s a mini fridge in the corner. “Where are we?” 

“Paradise,” Dean jokes.

Sam rolls his eyes. “We’re in a safe house. I managed to set this one up last week and so far no one knows it’s here.” 

Carefully, Castiel stands. “How long was I asleep?” 

“Half a day?” Dean muses.

Castiel’s jaw drops. “ _Half a day_?” 

Dean shrugs. “Enough to mojo yourself back to good health. You really gotta figure out how to use your grace on the battlefield, buddy.” 

Castiel sends him a withering glare.

Sam clears his throat. “There’s water in the fridge. Don’t drink too much, or you’ll puke.” 

Though he’s in hardly any pain, Castiel still walks slowly to the fridge. He pulls out a water bottle and uncaps it, chugging nearly the whole thing in a few swallows. He lets out a satisfied gasp when he pulls the bottle away, wiping his wet lips and chin with the back of his hand before looking towards where the brothers sit. Sam’s nose-deep in research, but he catches Dean looking- which has Dean whipping his head back towards his texts, ears burning. 

“How long do we have until Michael comes back?” Castiel asks, walking over to the table.

“Dunno,” Dean says. “Blasting an angel away has varied results. Sometimes it takes days to get back. Sometimes weeks. But he wasn’t too weak when I sent him off so I imagine he’ll be back sooner than later.” 

Castiel nods. It’s… surreal, being in the same room as Sam and Dean Winchester. It’s _unreal_ , having Dean in front of him, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, knee jiggling slightly as he flips the pages of his textbook, a hand in his hair and another hand fidgeting with a pen. He looks so… normal. He doesn't look like a killer, or a prisoner, or like someone who convinced another man to take his own life.

He looks… normal.

Part of that feels dangerous.

Part of that feels… right.

“How can I help?” Castiel asks, pulling up another chair, wincing when the legs _skrrrrrt_ across the concrete floor. 

“Here,” Sam nudges a book over towards him. “We’re looking for a location spell, basically. We need to modify it so that it will _send_ us there.”

“If we are in a time loop won’t we also have to alter time itself? Not just our location?” Castiel asks. 

Dean grins. “There’s my big brain.” 

Sam ignores him. “Yes, technically. But we’re trying to get to the _bunker_ , which doesn’t exist in any of the realities Michael has made for us. So if we can get a lock on that and who’s inside, we should also be able to cross timelines and realities to make it home.”

“... That doesn’t sound like it’s going to work.” 

Dean snorts.

“Are you sure that Michael hasn’t decimated the reality you-” he catches himself. “- _we_ have come from?”

Sam and Dean go silent. Castiel looks between them, suddenly aware of the fact that neither of the brothers has considered that option. The brothers are staring at each other, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Unsure as to how to comfort them, Castiel shifts idly in his chair. 

“I didn’t mean to-” 

“We just gotta believe it’s still there,” Dean says, voice gruff, avoiding looking at anyone as he buries his nose back in his book. 

A strange look passes over Sam’s features, something very close to sympathy, before he too returns his gaze to his laptop. “Chuck mentioned once that our Earth was the one he liked the best, because Dean and I were in it. I don’t think Michael would be so quick to get rid of it. Too much of a daddy’s boy, even though daddy’s dead.” 

“Did you know Chuck was _amused_ by our clown of a president?” Dean says, some heat creeping into his voice. “Explains why he let the fucker go this long without any consequences.” 

Castiel frowns a little. “Our president is Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.” 

Dean groans.

Sam sighs. “This world would be perfect. Us, you, her as president. If Michael wasn’t trying to kill us, it’d be a great reality to live in.”

“Then who’s your- our president?” Castiel asks, confused.

“Donald Trump,” Dean finger-guns sarcastically. 

Castiel physically recoils. “Do we have to go back to that world?” 

A light melts off of the wall and falls to the floor in a viscous puddle.

Sam and Dean send him a flat look. 

Castiel folds his arms over his chest, sighing. “I still don’t remember everything. Memories… they come to me in dreams and flashes.” He stares down at the book in front of him, seeing the words but not reading them. His shoulders slump ever so slightly. “Even though this isn’t my world… it _felt so real_. For so long. Or- at least it seemed that way.” The brothers stay quiet. Suddenly the weight of everything infiltrates his senses- his eyes burn hot, frustration grips him, his fingers digging into the sleeves of his battered suit jacket. Finally, he looks at Dean, gaze unwavering. “What I do know, is that I was guided to you for a reason. If what you say is true, that you’ve been bouncing between realities and unable to get close to me or even find me… then we must move quickly.” He looks back down at his book. “All I had in this universe was my job and false memories implanted into my psyche to make me believe that I’d been here all along. Dreaming of you…” his voice softens, his eyes flitting back up to Dean’s. “Being in the same room as you. Whatever… whatever that is, I know it is right.” 

And it’s all he has, he knows. The conversations in a white room with Dean chained to a desk while they debated the paranormal or talked about anything other than what could be fashioned into a proper journalist story are the most solid experiences he can draw on from this world. Those entangled with waking and sleeping dreams where he could feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his face and hear the laughs of the people he cared about most… That’s real. 

“Gotta say,” Dean mumbles, “gonna miss bein’ in my twenties again.” 

“You were a grumpy old man when you were sixteen,” Sam quips.

Pulling the book towards himself, Castiel smiles small. Though it feels like he’s experiencing this - the three of them - together for the first time, it also feels familiar and good. He looks at the spot across from him at the table, the empty chair, a few unused books stacked in its spot. Frowning a little, he tries to draw on his memories, wondering if there’s something else he’s missing - something the Winchesters are purposely not telling him - but comes up blank.

If it’s not that important, then he won’t push.

They have work to do.

\--

They stay in the warehouse for a week while the world around them destabilizes. Sam and Dean have the place warded so well it could probably withstand an alien invasion. When the internet finally dies Sam says he has everything he needs, and Dean and Castiel believe him. Castiel’s grown fond of their presence, even if it is sometimes trifling, particularly Dean’s riffing. A bored Dean is a dangerous Dean, but when he’s bored there’s no more danger than that which lingers inside an annoyed Castiel. 

More memories come back to him. He sleeps less and less, feels that tingle under his skin more and more, knowing that his grace is resurfacing and returning to his core. He’s now fully aware of his and Dean’s romantic relationship in “their world”, but here… he’s unsure how to approach that subject. Of course, since the very beginning, he’d felt a draw to the man. He’s still of the firm belief that there’s no other human as beautiful and radiant as Dean Winchester. Being attracted to someone physically and learning that attraction runs so deep and ancient is… well. A lot to handle. Castiel sometimes gets so overwhelmed by the sheer force of _emotions_ in regards to both the Winchesters that he often needs to physically distance himself in order to gather his bearings. 

Some memories are hard to parse. Sometimes when he sleeps it’s just… black. Goo and tar, endless, deep black, no sound, no light. Other times there’s so much light and laughter his heart feels as though it will burst. Dean’s laugh, Sam’s laugh, and another laugh he can’t really place… but one just as lovely and comforting.

They are not bothered by Michael.

Sometimes when Castiel comes out of a memory-dream, it feels as though he’s died and come back to life. The sensation of his eyes burning from the inside out, white-hot…

What little he can pull out of the Winchesters - which is harder than a medieval dentist pulling teeth - is grim. As far as he can tell there had been some bottle against God, an all out free for all, and they’d had to pull all the stops, which included Sam shooting God and wounding him (isn’t _that_ an interesting thing) and the sacrifice of a dear friend. The last thing the Winchesters remember from their original world, right before God died and blasted them into the time warp, was Castiel being stabbed through the heart, his body blasting away in charred feathers and black goo. 

They don’t say it outright, of course. But Castiel is smart, and through their stilted conversations and the remnants of his own memories… he knows he died.

It sends chills down his spine.

On the seventh day, Sam announces, “It’s as good as it’ll ever be.” 

On the concrete floor he’s drawn symbols and sigils with chalk and his own blood. Whatever spell ingredients he’d managed to stash on him before the world literally melted around them are displayed prettily in the triangle, a metal bowl in the center filled with herbs and bones. Each of them stand at a point of the triangle, looking at everything dubiously. Even Sam looks slightly unsure. 

“‘Good as it’ll ever be’ is the best we’ve got on a good day,” Dean says, trying to inject some humor into his voice. “Who are we if we don’t fake it til’ we make it?”

“I imagine when it comes to magic: dead,” Castiel replies blandly.

“I’ve got the spell here,” Sam says, holding up a piece of paper. “Cas, we need your blood. Dean, you’ll light it.” 

“My blood?” Castiel asks, raising his brows.

“Angel blood is like…” Sam tries to find the words. “It’s the best vehicle for magic if you’re missing ingredients or needing the spell to be stronger than it actually is. And…” he sends Dean an uneasy glance.

Castiel turns his raised brows towards Dean, who starts fidgeting. 

“Your blood is also a, uh, homing… beacon.” 

“For whom?” Castiel frowns, confused. 

“The person left in our universe,” Sam says. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then says, “Jack.” 

Castiel’s vision tunnels a bit, Sam, Dean, and the entire room lengthening in a visual warp as that name ricochets through his head. Jack. Jack? 

Sandy hair, big blue eyes, dimples, the sweetest smile. A woman more precious than pearls, hands on her stomach, a ringing voice caught in his ears. Hugs, tears, pride and sadness- _oh_ , the sadness. Blue eyes turned black, burnt out, body a hollow shell…

When Castiel comes back to himself he throws his hands up to his throat, trying to quell the coughing fit trying to overtake him. “Jack?” He repeats, voice raw. 

Dean stares at the ground, not saying anything. Sam looks like he wants to reach out and touch Castiel, offer him comfort in some way, but they all stay on their points in the triangle. Castiel feels the hollow ache in his chest, does his best to not let his knees weaken and collapse. This feeling in his chest is so… _heavy_. Similar to what he feels towards Dean, but profound in a different way. 

“Cas?” Dean asks softly.

“But he’s dead,” Castiel replies just as quiet. 

“His ashes are in the bunker,” Sam says. “It’s those we can lock onto with the spell.”

Letting out a shuddery breath, Castiel straightens. He holds out his hand towards Sam, steeling his resolve. Everything confusing in this world will be brought to clarity in the next, and right now, in this moment, he feels more determined than scared. This is not his life. This is not his world. This is not his story. 

Sam puts the knife in his hand. 

He grips the handle with one hand, the blade in the other, looking at both the brothers. Sam starts reciting the incantation, the Latin falling from his lips like a native tongue. As he speaks Castiel cuts his palm, the blade so sharp he barely feels it. The blood starts trickling, Castiel’s wrist rotating to aim it towards the bowl. Crimson stains herbs, seeds and bones, his heartbeat quickening in his chest faster and faster and faster until it stops altogether. Breathing suspends in his lungs. His hunger and thirst disappear. 

He squeezes his fist. 

Sam says the last word.

Dean strikes the match, the three of them all exchanging a glance. Castiel holds his gaze for a beat longer, then closes his eyes, keeping his bleeding hand over the bowl. 

The match is tossed.

The bowl explodes in colored smoke.


	8. Chapter 8

When Castiel’s feet land, he’s more sturdy than he’s ever felt. Well- than he ever felt in the fabricated journalist universe he lived in for the past who knows how long. There’s an undercurrent flowing through his veins, static electricity dispersing and coiling all at once like lightning on water. All of his memories return, and with them, every single emotion he’s felt since choosing Free Will over God’s hairbrained apocalypse plan. He feels his love for Dean, his affection for Sam, his longing for Jack. It’s a tidal wave. He wasn’t emotionless in the other world but the onslaught of what he feels now is nearly overwhelming.

The emotion he feels the most in this very moment?

He’s _pissed_.

Five seconds after he lands, he senses something flying towards him. Lifting an arm instinctively to block, the gust of wind that blasts in every direction from the sheer power of the contact of a fist hitting his forearm shakes the surrounding trees.

They’re in a clearing. 

Castiel lifts a foot to kick at his attacker’s body, doing his best to part their near embrace. It works, though only for a moment. He doesn’t catch a glimpse of his attacker before he’s pushed back by a flurry of blows, fist after fist punching his blocking arms and his shoulders. With a great burst of energy Castiel pushes off of his feet and jumps up and away from his foe, landing a safe distance away in a patch of dandelions. 

It’s Michael. 

Dean and Sam are nowhere to be seen. 

The tall grass and flowering weeds rustle, dispersed not by wind, but from the charge of their grace crackling through the air.

“Are you pleased with yourself?” Michael sneers. His perfect hair is in slight disarray, fixed when he lifts a hand to smooth it back with his palm, seemingly collecting himself. Ice blue eyes fixate on Castiel. “There’s nothing here for you, Castiel. The world you left behind has been picked apart by God and the angels.” 

“It can be undone,” Castiel says confidently.

Michael laughs outright, an ugly sound. With his memories fully intact, Castiel now recognizes the vessel of Dean’s young father, John. It’s unsettling. “Oh, and you and the Winchesters will repopulate it? Cities have been struck from the face of the Earth, the worst of humanity smote with vengeance. God sent you and the Winchesters away and caused chaos in the wake in his dying breath.” 

Fury washes over him. “Humanity has done nothing they weren’t predicted to do! God _left them_ to their devices and when He chose to return He was dissatisfied with their comings and goings?” 

Snorting, Michael makes an expansive gesture with his arms. “Humans are a plague, Castiel, that God created and then chose to end. The Earth was beautiful before He got bored.” He sniffs and shrugs. “You know how quickly He changes his mind on things.” 

“Michael,” Castiel’s voice turns pleading as he takes a step forward. “It was our duty to watch over Earth and all of its inhabitants. How can you turn your back on man so easily? You have Fallen, so close to quoting Lucifer.” 

“Because the Earth is no longer beautiful!” Michael suddenly shouts, a vein popping in his forehead. Wind gusts, his shoulders starting to distort. “Putting you and the Winchesters through those alternate timelines was the last hoo-rah of being amused by humans before putting an end to it all!” 

“And where will you go?” 

“The universe is vast and endless! There is no place we _can’t_ go! Parallel universes, alternate timelines, traveling outside of our solar system- we can do _anything_ Castiel!” His grin turns a little manic, overtaking his vessel completely. John Winchester is a stranger. “God is gone. This time, for good. Once again you weasled your way out of the Empty with your incessant talk of “free will” just in time to break the cycle of your human’s fate. For love! Come _on_ , Castiel! Free your mind from these tawdry human vices!”

“I _love_ humanity,” Castiel says, trying to keep his voice from trembling. He escaped the Empty… again?

“No,” Michael’s wings rip free from his back, eight of them, shining gold and pearl with white feathers and glittering veins. He leves Castiel with an even stare, “You love _one_ human.” 

The speed at which Michael flies towards Castiel is unseeable to the human eye. Castiel himself catches glimpses of it in bursts- his wings burst from his back with violent force and gore on instinct, much less elegant than Michael’s. Black bones, black feathers, black veins, black black black and charred by Hellfire. He moves just in time to dodge Michael’s attack, his six wings carrying him away in a tornado of dandelion fuzz and leaves. He hasn’t felt his power surge like this in years, but he still worries it isn’t enough to match Michael, an archangel. 

He spends his time dodging. Michael’s power is strong but his flight is clumsy. They’re both out of practice, but with less wings Castiel is a hair more agile. While that may be the case, if and when Michael lands a hit, it’ll rattle his jawbones. 

Castiel shoots vertical, wings flapping and heaving his body higher and higher into the sky. Michael follows, his wings a bit clumsy but his speed unmatched. He’ll catch Castiel any second now. A buzzing ticks in Castiel’s ears, twitching his eyes and jaw and causing his head to reflexively turn to the West where…

[[click to play]](https://open.spotify.com/track/57bgtoPSgt236HzfBOd8kj?si=VT6pz73xRjek6mf3MxcdEg)

A sleek, black, 1967 Chevrolet Impala is speeding down a dirt road, kicking up rocks and dust and rocking its chassis as it barrels through and over potholes. 

The momentary distraction costs him when Michael grabs his ankle and swings him like a shot put. He sails a quarter of a mile before righting himself, wings flapping, but as soon as he’s straight Michael is in his space, sending his fist to the softness under Castiel’s chin, cracking his neck and jerking his head back. Blood fills his mouth, his vision blurring slightly. Michael grips the lapels of his suit jacket, swinging him around again, this time hurtling him towards the earth below. 

When he lands he blows a crater into the ground.

The Impala roars ever closer. Castiel flies up out of the crater, wings beating to hover him, looking up at where Michael is smirking triumphantly down at him. He feels the blood congealing over his skin, baked into place by the sun high in the sky. Has he gotten so reliant on the Winchester’s help that he can no longer hold his own in battle?

Heavy metal blares from the speakers of the Impala the closer it gets. Castiel looks over, able to see Dean hanging out of the passenger seat, his butt on the window sill and a grenade launcher perched neatly over his shoulders. Sam has a bazooka propped over his left shoulder in the driver’s seat, the butt of it braced against the backseat behind him, his left hand on the steering wheel and his right hand on the trigger. 

Castiel’s heart skips a beat.

They’re alive.

They’re _alive_.

Who gives a damn if he can no longer fight without them.

They’re better together.

Feeling confidence filling his core, Castiel looks back up at Michael, who has finally noticed the car coming. He looks unimpressed.

Castiel shoots up like an arrow. Michael, distracted, doesn’t see him coming until the last minute. Castiel tackles him directly in the chest, wrapping him up in his arms and legs in an unbreakable bear hug. Sam and Dean are fifty feet below them, a hundred feet out. Using all of his strength, he braces against Michael’s thrashing and yelling, rotating them until Michael’s back is facing towards where the brothers are barreling forth. 

He cocoons himself in four of his wings, using the other two to keep them airborne.

All he needs to do is keep them steady.

“ **NOW!** ” Castiel’s angelic voice booms. 

The sound of the grenade launcher and the bazooka going off at the same time is surely deafening. Half a second after the explosions happen, the whistling of the objects flying towards them carrying gently on the breeze. Castiel closes his eyes. Michael’s thrashing intensifies, curses falling from his lips, his nails scrabbling and tearing at Castiel’s suit jacket. 

This isn’t the first time they’ll save the world…

But it will surely be the last.

The grenade and the rocket hit Michael’s back with so much force it first knocks the wind out of him, and then the explosion brings forth an agonizing, inhuman cry from the archangel. Castiel feels the flesh of his forearms sizzling and burning, the bones breaking with the explosion, but his head and body stay safely cocooned by his wings as he keeps his vice hold on Michael. 

He smells burning flesh. 

Then they’re falling. 

They almost make it into the crater Castiel had left. They fall just south of it, creating a bigger, deeper crater, the archangel landing first, Castiel atop him. The heat from the explosions was so great Castiel’s skin has melted and fused with the material of Michael’s jacket, white feathers sticking to his flesh. He’s dizzy from impact. Michael twitches in his arms, not yet dead, for nothing but an archangel blade can kill an archangel. 

When Castiel peels himself - literally - off of Michael, he stands on wobbly legs, looking up when a whistle catches his attention. At the ridge of the crater stands Sam and Dean, both of their faces pinched in worry. Dean throws something down at Castiel- he catches it deftly, despite the rapidly deteriorating use of his limbs. 

An angel blade. 

Castiel’s angel blade. Dean’s kept it this whole time.

He can’t kill an archangel with it, but he can still do some damage. 

Without thinking, Castiel grabs Michael by the shoulders on instinct, flipping him over onto his back to expose his wings and the flesh from Castiel’s forearms melted into the material of his coat. It’s quick and precise, the amputation of the huge wings, the angel blade not quite cutting through them clean, a sawing motion causing Michael to continue to cry out in anguish.

The meadow is silent save for the crunching and sawing of bones, blood spraying over Castiel, the beautiful sheen of golden glitter fading minute by minute as Castiel separates them from their host.

It takes twenty minutes to dismember all eight wings. 

For good measure, Castiel stabs Michael in the back, over where his vessel’s heart is, taking a tired, perverse pleasure in the way the archangel twitches and groans in torment. 

Michael falls limp. Castiel gathers up the amputated wings, careful not to damage them any further, then starts the slow ascent up the curve of the crater wall. It’s difficult to move with a mountain of bone and feathers in his arms, but he’s determined. At the top Sam and Dean reach out for him, sturdy and solid and permanent as trees, gripping him with their hands and hauling him up. He drops the wings, their feathers shifting and fluffing softly as they part the tall grass to rest. He sags against the brothers, inhaling their scents; sweat, shampoo, gunpowder. 

“He said God is gone,” Castiel says. His voice is raw, dry, like he swallowed sand. 

An arm from each brother wraps around him, keeping him upright. 

“ _Gone_ gone?” 

Castiel nods, then regrets it when his neck cracks. “Michael said the Earth has been purged. I don’t know… how many are gone.” He exhales shakily. “I’ve escaped the Empty again.”

The silence is heavy. Very carefully, the brothers shift until Dean is supporting Castiel’s weight, starting to shuffle them towards the car. The sound of Sam gathering the wings with their bloody stumps gets lost in the breeze rustling through the tall grass. Once they’re in the car, Castiel on a bed of feathers and hollow bones in the backseat, Dean behind the wheel and Sam passenger, they all let out a collective breath. 

He dimly registers his trench coat draped over his body and suddenly, everything feels just right.

“S’always us against the world, huh?” Dean muses. 

Sam shifts. “Maybe… maybe this time it’s us _and_ the world.” 

Dean moves his head from side to side in contemplation, then smiles, the whites of his teeth visible in the rear view mirror. He’s old. He’s no longer the boyish man Castiel had interviewed in jail. There are crinkles at the corners of his eyes, impressions near his lips. He’s gorgeous. He’s alive. “Y’know what? That’d be kinda nice, actually.” 

The car starts, the engine roaring. Castiel thinks of investigative journaling, he thinks of familiar faces long gone, resurrected to serve as macabre tether to the world left behind. He thinks of Dean, shackled and chained, ready to let God’s horrible game run its course so they can be catapulted into the next dimension, dying over and over and over only to lose his memories time and time again until he’s triggered into remembrance. 

He looks at the backs of Sam and Dean’s heads, like has has so many times for the past decade. Then, he rumbles, loud enough to be heard over the revving of the engine as the car once again bounces on and around potholes as they leave the craters in the meadow. “We should go on vacation.”

The brothers send him a dubious look.

Castiel’s eyes close, a smile on his lips. His Grace is already regenerating his wounds, skin healing, body resting. New flesh crawls down his forearms like webs, attaching to muscles and tendons, pink with freshness before darkening to his soft caramel tan. “It will take Michael a long time to heal… and if God truly is gone, that means that the angels are, too. Michael has always had a vendetta against Earth… especially you two I have a hard time believing he will move on from this world as long as we are in it.” 

“Huh,” Sam shoots his brother a look. “Think we can handle Michael when he comes back?” 

Dean chuckles. “Sure we can.” 

“Then drive us to the nearest beach,” Castiel says, relaxing against the downy, soft bed of feathers. He’s surrounded by ozone, dirt, gunpowder, and he’s fairly certain a bottle of Dean’s aftershave is stuck under the backseat. 

“Toes in the sand?” Dean asks at large. 

“Toes in the sand,” Sam confirms. 

Castiel replaces images of Dean in an orange jumpsuit with Dean in orange board shorts, freckles tanning his skin, soul so radiant the sun of the equator itself won’t shine as bright. 

“We’ll get Cas one of those trashy romance novels he’s apparently so fond of,” Dean chuckles.

“I love you,” he says suddenly.

The brothers quiet. 

Dean says, “We know, Cas.” 

Sam throws Castiel a look over the seat, his features soft, eyes bright. “Us, too.” 

He will never forget this feeling. 

No matter where they go or if they part. 

Of that, he is sure.

The Impala rumbles off into the forest, ready for the next adventure.

The Winchesters _with_ the world.

Bring it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you ever just... *clenches fist* want to write a different ending for this stupid show because you know the stupid writers are gonna fuck everything up and you have 0 faith whatsoever that we'll get any sort of satisfactory ending?  
> same.  
> i wanted this fic to feel as canon as possible while still giving us what we want. well i guess what i want. (i'm sorry but matt cohen michael is the best michael)  
> if you read daily, thank you for coming on this journey with me!  
> if you binged in one go, i hope you enjoyed!  
> if you miss me terribly i'm [here](https://www.instagram.com/witchstetician/)


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